Loved
by Jubalii
Summary: She loves him, and learning the reasons only makes it harder for her to choose the right path. [Sequel to Hatred]
1. Prologue

**Author's Note** : _Hatred_ is a standalone oneshot… or it was supposed to be. But there are certain questions that I asked myself once it was finished that just wouldn't leave me alone. I hope to answer them now.

Also, fanfiction . net hates my formatting, so please pretend underlined parts are strikethroughs. Sorry! _(squints at old formatting system)_

* * *

 _It is five o' clock, the world's most famous timepiece chiming merrily. Beneath her feet, eight stories' worth of Labrellum employees stretch in their office chairs, locking up the laboratories and chattering like parrots in the elevators as they head out the front doors and into the late spring afternoon. The taste of summer is in the air, and they're excited for the weeklong holiday. They speak of summer gatherings: cookouts, swimming parties, trips to the beach, to the countryside, to the amusement parks. It's all in effort to rejuvenate the worn men and women who have slaved the winter away behind steel and sterile walls, looking longingly from their desks at the budding trees just beyond their grasp._

 _Up on the ninth floor, the setting sun casts long shadows across the spacious, yet empty office. There is a lack of personality, a sense of ambiguity. It could be anyone's space. The beige walls are bare, shadowy remembrances of picture frames marring the otherwise formless surface. The desk is plain, no photographs or stuffed animals or dancing flowers showing a hint of personality amidst the neatly organized workspace. There is a quill holder in the shape of a cat, though it's placed in a state of importance on top of a filing cabinet, half-hidden by a stack of manila folders. The only true sense of décor is a pot of red flowers, carefully tended. The inhabitants of the building, and the CEO herself, are both well aware of these flowers and their importance, though perhaps it means something different to them both._

 _The woman behind the desk is just as neatly organized and, somehow, as plain as the rest. Her face is pretty, eyes shining a bright blue-green behind her dark square frames. She wears no makeup, nothing to stand out among the crowd other than plain lip gloss that could easily be mistaken for shiny chapstick. She is always clothed in muted colors—grays, dark blues, greens and browns; these enhance the color of her eyes and bring out the warm tones in her hair. From afar, it's not hard to guess that she is beautiful in a singular way._

 _She is well-liked in the company; despite everyone's first impression of a young woman coming in to take over a multi-million dollar corporation, she has not only excelled but also exceeded everyone's expectations. She's kind but firm, smart but humble, polite but stubborn. She treats everyone equally and takes all thoughts into consideration before enacting a plan. She looks at problems from every angle to find creative solutions. She's easily approachable and everyone seems to get along with her. There are many who consider her a friend, if not an amiable acquaintance._

 _But though she is properly civil and gentle, there is something aloof in her nature that creates a breach between her and those who'd like to know her better. She is single, as far as anyone knows, but every man who has ever asked her to drinks after work has been politely declined. She doesn't speak much about her past: the only known facts about her are that both parents are dead, and that she has known the company president all her life. She has no social media accounts, no university degree, and no family. Any attempt to research her background provides no results other than her being employed at Labrellum Laboratories since the age of eighteen. CEO Ms. Eve B. Darklaw is a mystery that's seemingly impossible to solve. That, however, doesn't deter her employees from trying._

 _After all, they are scientists: discovering the unknown is their nature._

* * *

"Well, Miss Workaholic." The nasally tenor of her private secretary grates on her nerves; it's a constant factor along with the obsessive gum-chewing. Easily ignorable, but an annoyance if she thinks on it for any length of time. She reminds herself to never grow agitated at Ms. Primstone again; at least that woman knew when to mind her own business sometimes. _Sometimes._ "The day's over and you're still here!"

"If you're waiting on me to leave, don't feel as though you have to." Mrs. Mouthey is a direct woman, and being direct in return is usually the easiest route to take. "I'll be fine. Enjoy your holiday." Her report is only half-finished; to leave before it is finished is unacceptable. The woman takes the bait, but not the hint.

"Wh-at?" she drawls, popping her gum loudly. "Well, if you're sure." Still she lingers. She twists her graying hair with one manicured talon, peering over her tortoiseshell glasses. Her entire wardrobe is dated, but those glasses are from another century entirely. The folds of her mouth draw together, an accordion worn from being played nonstop for over sixty years. "But you _will_ stay?"

"For a while. I want to finish up some things." Hazel eyes narrow, a vulture swooping low over its potential meal.

"Surely a young lady like you has holiday plans," she says, talons tapping against her puckered chin with a slow, deadly rhythm. The silences blossoms, develops, grows and fills up the empty spaces of the room effortlessly. "You don't plan on spending it _here_ , do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not." Giving into the demand for information, she tells herself that it's only to make the old woman go away faster. "I'm traveling from London tomorrow."

"Oh!" Another silence, less poignant than the first. "Well, if you're traveling alone, I hope you plan on some safety measures!" It's well meant, she's sure, but that damn wheeze in her nose makes it sound jeering instead.

"I'm meeting someone." The words leave her mouth and hang over her desk before she realizes what she's done.

"Oh!" She fights the cringe from her face, trying to keep a neutral, even look that suggests no mischief. Of course, the news will have touched every floor in some way by tomorrow evening, even if no one is at work. The corporate email servers will have beaucoups of needless correspondence discussing her private life. She's used to being the subject of gossip among her employees, ever since the day she showed up and took over the position. Her favorite rumor is that she's some sort of corporate Mary Poppins, saving businesses from certain ruin before drifting away to some other Fortune 500 company that needs her. The most recent is that she's Mr. Cantabella's illegitimate daughter and the position is a gift from her 'benevolent uncle'.

"Yes." She types in footnote number eighteen, steadfastly refusing to look towards the presence at the door. "I'm going back to my hometown." At least they'll know now that she has a home to go to, and maybe despite the gossip this will help deter the men who strive to get closer to her. She hates turning them down time and time again with no explanation, especially since she has no indication that she's in a relationship. She's not even sure herself.

"Well, well, well…." A hum, a clang of bangles. "I'll leave you to it then. Have a safe trip, and I'll see you in June!"

"Thank you." It's a needless gesture; the clatter of Mrs. Mouthey's too-high heels is already a faint tattoo on the hall leading towards the lift. She sighs, rubbing her temples with her fingertips and adjusting her glasses. There's no guarantee that she'll be seen here in June. She'd thought that six months would have been more than enough time to make up her mind, but now that it's down to the final week she has no more idea of her future path than she did when she took her first step off the bus.

She looks around the bare office that she can't bare to make her own, not yet. The fragrance of the red flowers drifts over her as the central air kicks on. It's a heartbreaking, homesick scent that nearly choked her those first few months, but now it holds a promise. By this time tomorrow, she'll be where the fields are overflowing in abundance with their counterparts. She'll be home.

She pushes such thoughts from her mind, determined to focus on the here and now. The lights upstairs will automatically click off at seven on the dot, and it's already half past five. She has to get the report finished, because she _doesn't_ know if she'll return and she hates to leave the work for someone else to come in to. It's easy if she just thinks about _not thinking_ , her clumsy fingers stuttering over the keyboard as she continues to type.

There's a potential scenario that she outlines in the report, a scenario that could nearly double the net profit of the company. It's a risky venture, but she's sure that she can—no: she _knows_ that she can pull it off if she tries. She all but says so as she polishes off the document and emails it to the proper authorities for review just as the clock strikes quarter 'till seven. They probably won't look at it until the following weekend, but never let it be said that CEO Darklaw missed a deadline.

 _Will I even be here to make this plan work?_ She sighs again, the thought alone giving her a headache. It's not that she doesn't know what she wants. She does, and therein lays the problem without a feasible solution.

She wants her job. She wants the business management meetings, the company letterheads, the reports and stress of managing a multimillion dollar establishment. She wants her title, wants to be able to decorate her office without the fear of having to take everything right back down, the ability to grow close to her coworkers without the nagging guilt of leaving them soon after becoming friends. She wants the challenges that come with the position, challenges rivaling those of her witch trial days and giving her a willing excuse to stretch her problem-solving muscles. She wants the knowledge, the broadening of horizons that comes only from learning about this modern ocean that, before this year, she's only dipped her toes into. This place, this life, is a niche that she's genuinely interested in, that she loves working with. She can see a happy life ahead of her if she stays.

But she also wants home. She longs for Labyrinthian cobblestones beneath her feet. She wants to wake up to the soft whisper of wind in the forest, the sharp calls of geese on the lake, the perfume of the Eldwitch flowers thick in the morning air. She wants to hear the bell tower pealing mournfully, yet beautifully at noontide. She wants the slower, clackity-clack bustle of horse-drawn carts, so distant from the mechanical rhythm of the metro. She wants the smell of a bakery to symbolize friends again, instead of simply bread. She wants its people, loud and quiet and nosy and distant and _unique_ , each with their job to do. She wants the mundane day to day life, to be reminded that every new day can hold something small and exciting within itself. She wants to belong again.

She wants both, but can only choose one. She can't be a CEO from Labyrinthia, not with the company president already residing there. And she can't bring Labyrinthia to London, either. She's only got seven more days to make the decision that's been eating at her for months now, and the answer is still in the distance, clouded as the fog that hangs over the lake near her house. _How can I possibly choose?_ She asks herself time and time again, though she knows that she must. No one can make this decision for her, and even if they could she knows that she could only be satisfied with her own judgment on the matter.

She locks up her office—perhaps for the last time—and waves to the nightshift security guards as she steps out into the darkened streets. The sun is nearly set, the purpled dusk cut by the streetlights that have already flickered to life. It's only a mile walk to her hotel, and she steps lightly in her hurry to get to her suite. The city is already coming alive with the nightlife, the business sector behind her darkened while before her the streets are crowded and a myriad of scents fill the air: cheap cologne, spirits, food vendors, cigarette smoke. She stops for a gyro at her favorite corner vendor, and she doesn't need to tell him how she likes it. He has it ready for her by the time she fishes the money from her handbag, handing it over as though the Greek dish was a bouquet. He winks and she turns away, hiding her smile.

Her suite is on the ninth floor, well situated away from the noise of the two restaurants housed in the hotel's atrium. When she closes the door, all sounds are cut off and she can pretend, almost, that she's alone in the middle of nowhere. The gyro is placed on the counter in the kitchenette, next to the unused coffeepot and oft-used microwave oven. She'll miss that microwave if she decides to stay; it's been a lifesaver when she was too tired to cook for herself.

The living area is separated from the bedroom area by a tiny expanse of carpet that manages to double as a hallway leading to the bathroom and closet. She places her handbag in the closet and undresses, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders as she changes into her nightgown. The tiles are chilly on her bare feet and damp with the residue of mop water: they've cleaned, and recently. She doesn't care much for the cleaning; even as the Great Witch, she saw to her personal space's cleanliness on her own. The Shades weren't allowed in her _home_ , even if they did work in her house. But they clean anyway, and to their credit her private belongings have remained untouched by any hands other than hers.

She eats the gyro in the kitchenette, standing at the counter and staring at the wall. Usually, she would be preparing to write her letters at this time; her Friday tradition since she first came to the hotel. Write them on Friday, send them on Saturday, and receive replies on Tuesday. Last Tuesday's replies are in the top drawer of the end table in the living area, and once she wipes her hands of the pita oil she sits on the sofa and looks at them. There are three this time, as Jean Greyerl saw fit to offer one last update on her house—she offered to help Espella look after it, and sent formal reports each month on the state of things. Unnecessary, to be sure, but she likes the thought of being kept in the loop. The language is short, precise, and something that she would expect more from one of the head scientists than a young girl employed as the town physician.

Espella's letter is as bright and bubbly as usual, written in a crooked, but neat script and flowing across the page as rushed as the girl herself. She always seems to write ninety miles a minute, as though there is never enough time to get down all her thoughts. Perhaps she just wants to make sure they're all written down before she forgets and moves onto something more. She reads over it again, feeling the younger woman's excitement and cheerfulness bleeding from the parchment. It's shorter than usual, but what's written is still warm and friendly.

 _Dearest Eve:_

 _Are you ready to come home? I know that I can't wait to see you! It feels like it's only been a few days since I waved to you at the pier, but at the same time it feels like it's been ages! How can that be? I guess it's just because I'm busy, but I still get to hear from you every week. I know you won't write another letter, so even though you'll be home it will still be strange not waiting around for Lettie on Saturday._

 _It's warm here, warm enough that we have to have a picnic one day when you're home. And you remember that the May Festival is on Wednesday, so we'll get to spend the whole day outdoors! I hope it doesn't rain, but I think that I would still go out even if it was pouring. There's something peaceful about walking out in the rain, and I think doing it with a friend would make it even better. Of course, then we'd both catch cold and stay in bed the rest of the week! So I guess we can't. Sir Barnham would kill me if I let you get sick, because then he wouldn't get to he'd worry about you._

 _Think about us often, Eve! We think about you! I'll keep this letter short, so I can tell you everything on Saturday instead! Take care not to miss your bus!_

 _Your friend,_

 _Espella C._

She has dwelled all week on the five crossed out words, scribbled and scratched until they were nearly illegible. _Then he wouldn't get to… to what?_ She wondered, not for the first time, what Espella had been about to say, and even more: why she changed her mind. Had… had she heard something and decided that it was confidential information, or had she decided that what she was about to say was just conjecture and stopped herself? _Reading too far into things again, aren't you?_ That was one her faults, to be sure. Most likely, Espella had just found an easier way to state her sentence and had crossed out all the words she didn't need. But then why had she done it so forcefully?

She put Espella's letter aside and picked up the other, which had been resting on her lap. This letter was no shorter or longer than his other letters, but held no more clues than any of his other letters, either. She had read the scribbled lines over and over again all week, the scrawl splashing onto the page in uneven lines that slanted farther and farther to the right with every word. From the beginning line, cramped at the top as always:

 _Eve:_

There was no 'Miss' attached, and she is glad of it. After all, she'd asked him to leave it off the last time they'd been together, hadn't she? But nothing more, nothing less, and not even a 'dear' thrown in for good measure. It was the contents of the letters themselves that always left her puzzling, and his last one was no different than the rest.

 _Eve_ :

 _Everyone is glad that you will be home soon. I believe that 'tis truly Mrs. Eclaire that worries most, because she cannot gauge how much you are eating. Do try to not come home any skinnier than you were when you left, otherwise you might have to eat all the merchandise we have readied in the bakery. I'll try to go slower with the bread-making closer to the week's end, just in case._

 _I Are_

 _Our resident mischief-maker has been at it again. Constantine has managed to break two shelves in a fortnight and Mrs. Eclaire has threatened to send him packing back to the garrison stables. He was playing with the other Eve and slid on some water. I believe that Espella may have unknowingly spilled some that morning, as I could find no leaks in the roof. In any case, two legs on one shelf are broken and the other has a canine-sized dent in the corner. I plan on trying my hand at fixing them on Thursday, but_ _I don't know if_ _you know how I am with a hammer. I may instead beg a favor from the captain, who used to patch up the garrison from time to time._

 _Do_ _I wish_

 _I thought of you, the other day. I was making éclairs. I've grown better, and for three months past Mrs. Eclaire has let me be in charge of them. If Labyrinthia patrons notice a difference they say nothing, which is probably best! I think that I am steadily improving, but when you return I shall bake you one and let you judge for yourself. I promise that there will be no lumps this time._

 _I would like to congratulate you on the success of your unification of monetary values with the other company._ _. Of course, I always believed __I knew that you were more than capable of, as_ _the Stor_ _Mr. Cantabella puts it, sealing the deal. Certainly, you have done a great deal for Labrellum since you left Labyrinthia. Its president sings your praises, after all, and he said just the other day that stock prices were higher than ever. He showed us the newsprint that had your picture on it._ _a ss_

 _It was a good photograph. Espella laughed because the man could barely reach up enough to put his arm around your shoulder._

 _Thank you for your help in solving that puzzle I sent with the last letter. Rouge had me stumped for a week on it, but she was surprised when I came back and solved it easily on Wednesday. It took me a long time to draw it out on the paper correctly, because I didn't want her to know I was asking your advice on the matter. I had to memorize the way it looked and copy it in my room that evening. She keeps adding more daggers to the puzzle; I wonder what will happen when she runs out of bar space?_

 _I hope you laughed at that. I think much of the joke falls flat when I transfer it onto paper. 'Tis a shame, but at least_ _I will see I will see _

_I will see you laugh in person when you return._

 ** _I will be waiting for you on Saturday with the boat._**

 _Zacharias Barnham_

His letters are always about such mundane topics, but it is in the same manner that he used to chatter on about when they shared an office together. The language isn't flowery or sophisticated, but she can hear his voice in her mind as she reads over the words, imagining him groaning at the lack of a response to his written joke and laughing heartily over poor Constantine's plight.

Unlike Espella, his letters are always riddled with crossed out sentences, the ink blotted on the corners, the crumpled parchment sometimes water stained. But they are all just authentication factors to her—only _he_ would think to send her a letter on such ruined paper. And _like_ Espella, she has no clue why he crosses out what he does. She can see, in some places, where he simply chooses a different route in finishing off the sentence, such as when he talks about the former captain of the guard repairing Mrs. Eclaire's bakery shelves.

But the third paragraph from the end bewilders her. Not the 'unification of monetary values'; that is just Barnham speech for a business merger. But when he speaks of her picture in the newspaper he crosses out something thoroughly, even crosshatching it so that she can only make out a few letters. Compared to his other strikethroughs, this is a puzzle in and of itself. She can't even guess at what he means to say, as the rest of his paragraph only talks about the photo on an almost unrelated tangent.

She reads over the very last sentence again, squashed right above the squiggled scrawl that stands for his signature. _I will be waiting for you on Saturday with the boat._ It sounds like an oath, almost, the writing heavy as if the quill has bore down on the page while he writes the letters out. She imagines him standing before her, his fist clenched over his breastplate as he stares down at her on the sofa, a solemn expression on his face.

She folds the letter slowly, placing them both on the coffee table and lying on the sofa with her knees drawn up. His letters are secretly her favorite part of mail day, though she does enjoy Espella's as well. But there's something about them that remains aloof, set apart from her best friend's correspondence. It's emotion, she notes. There's a lack of emotion. That could be a letter to any friend, any distant acquaintance. That's not a letter to someone you confessed your feelings for just before they left for another city.

Granted, her own letters in return haven't been full of sweet nothings, but she's her and he's him. She's always been reserved with her emotions, she's had to be. The most unhinged he's ever seen her is when she cried on him the day of the final Witch Trial, after she tried unsuccessfully to word a proper apology. He, on the other hand, is vehement and emotional. She would have expected letters filled with—with what? He's not poetic; she doubts he could be, even if he tried his best. But perhaps an 'I miss you' would have been nice. Maybe he thinks it goes unsaid that he misses her. Maybe he doesn't miss her. _Six months is a long time._ Hadn't he been the one to say those exact words?

Rolling onto her back, she stares up at one outstretched hand. He'd also asked her to stay. _Don't go._ And he'd fought with himself for nearly two weeks in an effort to preserve her happiness, or what he thought was her happiness. Sure, it had almost caused her a very painful heartbreak, but even she could see that it had been done with good intentions. He'd been prepared to lose her, to sacrifice his own happiness so that she could live the life she wanted… he'd embraced her and promised to wait for her when she returned. Would he really go now and choose someone else, after doing all that for her? That wasn't his way. But then _why_ did he not write with all the feeling she knew that he was capable of?

She pulls herself off the couch, gathering the letters from the table and wandering into the bedroom. She carries just her suitcase again, unable to pack the rest of her things when she knows she might be coming back to this suite. Mr. Cantabella has it rented indefinitely, and she's already made clear that no one is to clean until she returns—if she returns. She puts the letters with the others she's kept over the past months, carrying the love and support in them with her on the journey home. The only thing left is the two framed pictures she has on the nightstand, where she can look at them as frequently as need be. One is her birthday gift from Espella, the two happy girls smiling out of the frame. The other is the parting gift that he gave her, with their nearly matching outfits. These are her treasures, meager as they are.

She wraps them in her spare gown before placing them on top of the rest. Now, she only has to pack the things she will use tomorrow morning—her hairbrush, toothbrush, nightgown and reading glasses—before catching the first bus home. The suitcase is zipped securely and placed by the closet door, the handbag now wrapped around the handle so that she won't forget it.

She is dozing in the bed, the lamp the only source of light in the room, when her mobile chirps an incoming call. Reaching blindly for it, she brings it close and peers at the numbers splayed across the screen. It's a landline, one that she knows well.

"Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" Mr. Cantabella's voice is fuzzy with static. "I'm sorry to call so late."

"No, no. I'm fine." She struggles to sit up one-handed, finally jamming the phone in the crook of her neck as she straightens the twisted covers around her legs. "How are you?"

"A little tired, but otherwise well." His illness is under control thanks to the dedicated work of his company, but fatigue is one of the main side effects that remain. Even the medicine he takes daily makes him sleepy, but he takes it in stride. Better to be tired than dead. "And you? Are you all packed?"

"Mostly. I'm ready for tomorrow to hurry up and get here, if that's what you're asking." He laughs, and she can't help but smile at the sound. Despite wanting to ruin his life at one point, he's grown on her and she misses him.

"I think we all are." He laughs again. "Sir Barnham would have been waiting overnight at that bus station, had I not assured him that you were taking the first bus out of London and wouldn't arrive before midmorning. He's been on pins and needles since yesterday afternoon."

"I can't see why," she huffs, though she's secretly elated. "I'll be fine."

"I can." A rustle of cloth as the old man shifts. "He's been anxious to see you again." There's a knowing smile in his voice. "You should have seen the way he poured over that image of you in the _London Times_. Between him and Mrs. Patty Eclaire, I'm not sure which one of them is more concerned with your health."

"I'm fine. You should have let me talk him down on the phone if he was getting so up in arms." Really, she just wants to hear his voice, but that would have been a fine excuse.

"It would do little good, otherwise I might have considered the option. It's just how young men are," he explains. "He won't rest properly until you're back where he can watch over you."

"You make it sound as though I'm about to drop dead any moment!" she exclaims, shaking her head even though he can't see the motion. "How many times do I have to repeat it?"

"I know, I know. You're fine." He's shaking his head too, she can tell. "But he's not, until you're standing in front of him. And Mrs. Eclaire won't be until she can get three square meals into you in a row. She insists that the stress of such a job has made you thinner."

"It has not."

"Of course it hasn't. Caring about someone comes with its own set of negative rose-tinted lenses, I'm afraid. It's about fearing the worst when someone's abroad, because of your own helplessness. They won't be calm until you're back home, because that's where they can take care of you properly." She understands this, of course, because she worries about them all in her own small way. But to have it turned back on her is… not unsettling, but rather embarrassing. She doesn't want anyone to worry themselves over her.

"Well…." She struggles for the right words. "I'd hate for them to keep feeling that if I decide to come back."

"Still in the air about it?" he responds.

"Yes." She's abashed, but he sets her straight.

"It's understandable, Eve. That's a big decision. You can have more time to think on it, if you like." She _wants_ to say yes, but wants and needs are two different things.

"No. If I keep doing that, I'll never decide. I'll give you a definitive answer by Saturday. I promise."

"I trust you. Make the choice based on your own feelings, Eve. Don't worry yourself over what everyone else with think or say. I will support you no matter if you choose to resign the position or stay in London."

"I know." She does know, and that makes it a little easier. "Thank you."

"Yes, well… I'll let you sleep now. You've got a long day ahead of you. Try to rest."

"Yes. Good-bye."

"Goodbye." A click, a dial tone. He's hung up. She lets the mobile turn itself off and lays back down, switching off the lamp and throwing the room into a darkness that blinds her. _Sir Barnham would have been waiting overnight at that bus station…_ Was he really that eager to see her again? Or that concerned over her? Her heart thumps steadily behind her ribcage: _Soft spot. Soft spot. Soft spot._

She chews her lip and considers this for the better part of an hour, but nothing more comes of it no matter how long the Storyteller's words repeat through her mind.

* * *

The journey _is_ a long one. She has a window seat this time, and stares without seeing the English countryside as they wind their way slowly to the pier. She holds her handbag on her lap, the suitcase secure beneath her feet. She's thinking of home, of her house in the fields, of the bakery and its mistress, of the Storyteller and his daughter. Of her former Inquisitor.

She gets off the bus. He's sitting on the bench, having fallen asleep at the stop. She sits down next to him, 'accidentally' jolting him with her suitcase and murmuring a barely audible apology. He looks up to make amends for taking up so much space (he does sit so widely, with his legs sprawled all over the place) and sees who it is that has woken him. Laughing, he pulls her to him the same way he did six months ago, only this time without letting her go until they're both good and ready.

She gets off the bus. He's waiting for her near the pier entrance, and she doesn't think twice about running across the busy street without waiting for the signal. He holds out his arms and she jumps into them, suitcase skidding to a stop close by as he twirls her around and clutches her as if afraid she might disappear should he loosen his hold. Her face is pressed against his neck, breathing in the combination of scents that is his own.

She gets off the bus, but before she even begins, he's dodging cars and running just as recklessly across the street. He catches her before she can dismount the last step, pulling her out of the way of the other passengers as he holds her. Her feet are off the ground and she wraps her arms around his neck to compensate. He kisses her, a kiss she's seen recreated on the television, a kiss the other women at Labrellum speak of in the bathrooms as they fix their makeup and re-curl the ends of their hair. A kiss that makes up for every missed opportunity and all the months apart.

This is all pointless, of course, but it does help to pass the time. She knows how heavy a sleeper he is—a jolt with a light handbag won't rouse him, even if it was straight upside his head. If he managed to catch her at all, he'd most likely swing her around one too many times and give her a dizzy headache. And she could almost hear the sound of his body slamming against the side of the bus, if a car didn't knock him into the next life first. But the kiss… despite everything, she wants the kiss.

The bus rumbles along, growing more and more crowded with each stop. Most are people headed out for the holiday, though a few businessmen crowd together near the back. At a rest stop, she stretches her legs and looks at her mobile while some of the others wander around and smoke. While she's got signal now, she knows there will be none in Labyrinthia and turns off the phone to conserve battery. She plans to use her old office to check up on any emails she might get through the break.

When they all load, the driver checks the doors and then turns the key, only to hear a loud crunch of metal and a squealing that forces them all to cover their ears. Smoke billows from the flat hood of the bus and the driver hurriedly turns the key again.

"Stay put, you lot," he grunts, waddling down the stairs. "I'll be right back." No one stays put, children jumping up into their parents' seats, men and women leaning around to talk to their friends.

"Will we be stranded?"

"Mummy, aren't we going to the beach?"

"Does this mean we can buy another ice cream, Da?"

"I better call Mum; she'll be worried that we're running late."

She thinks of calling Mr. Cantabella, but there's no way of knowing if he'll be at his desk landline. He may not get a message until she's already arrived and after all, it may be a quick fix. She hopes beyond hopes that it's a quick fix. The bus is hot, jam-packed as it is with bodies, and the sweat is pooling on the small of her back. She prays to her lucky stars that she doesn't smell as sweaty as she feels, that the expensive perfume she received as a Christmas present from the company potluck works the way it should.

"Bad news." The driver is back, mopping at his pasty forehead. "We've blew the radiator. They're sending a new bus for you all, but it'll be a bit. Better had on back out now, 'n take your things with you." A chorus of groans is drowned by a flurry of movement as everyone reaches over and around everyone else for their belongings. They troop dutifully off the smoking bus and disperse as far as they dare go, still within sight distance of the felled vehicle but away enough that they have relative privacy.

She chooses an empty stone bench beneath an oak and waits, allowing herself to fall back into fantasies that will never come true.

* * *

It's more than a bit; it's _hours_. Noon passes, and she has to buy herself a modest lunch from a vending machine. A few passengers complain loudly to the driver, who loudly protests back that he can only do so much, the bus is on its way, be patient or get lost. She continues to wait, the shade a godsend. At least they hadn't had to stay on that bus in this heat.

When they're safe on 'Rescue Bus #919', she allows herself to wonder if anyone at the pier was told what had happened. Had they relayed the radiator failure? If they had, great. If they hadn't, there was nothing she could do. She doesn't know the number to the pier office, and there is still no way of knowing if the Storyteller was near to the phone or not. A useless call would be wasted minutes, which she pays for as needed. Old fashioned, compared to some of the newer, niftier phones, but it suits her well enough. As they move farther south, clouds begin to build and she wonders if it will rain, if it's already raining at home.

Soon enough, the pier is the next stop on the route and her stomach begins to churn. She's nervous, and excited, and worried all at the same time. What if he went home without her, thinking that she'd missed the bus? What if she was stranded there overnight? What would she do? What if he was angry that he had to wait so long? What would he say to her? What would she say to him? The corners of her handbag are squeezed to near oblivion as she hunkers in the seat. Her seatmate, a youth with more holes in his ears than Swiss cheese, stares askance at her before shifting nearer to the aisle.

She nearly misses the stop when the bus slows, she's so caught up in her hopes and fears. She stands abruptly, barely keeping herself from knocking the boy on his pimpled face as she wiggles out into the aisle and hoists her suitcase above everyone's heads. The driver nods at her as she waits for the three other people getting off here to dismount before her. She gulps, but nods in return and throws back her shoulders as she takes the three steep steps from bus to sidewalk.

The pier is unchanged, save for a few loose signs that have been nailed properly back. The bus station has added a new news rack, filled up with tabloids; "Years Later: Another Gourdy Sighting?" flashes at her in garish yellow letters over a blurred photograph. She tears her eyes away from it, knowing that the only reason she looked at all was to keep from seeing what was there, _who_ was there. Or, consequently, who wasn't. The pier isn't busy, and at first glance she sees no one she knows of. Not even Constantine. It's foggy and as she stands, a mist begins to fall; not enough to do more than barely wet the skin and make the air muggier.

There's a frightening moment where her throat clogs with fear and she grips the suitcase until her knuckles are white; _what will I do?_ Even thinking about such a scenario on the bus, she didn't actually believe it would happen. She digs in her handbag for her phone, no longer caring about the wasted minutes. She has to get in touch with the Storyteller, to find out what's going on.

A hand taps politely on her shoulder and she spins, an apology already on her lips as she realizes that she's blocking a good bit of the bench by standing directly in front of it. It dies on her tongue because here he is, standing behind her dressed as inconspicuously as any of the people talking beneath overhangs or jogging through the misty drizzle with their hoods drawn over their head. The mobile drops back into her bag as she looks him over, staring at the low-slung jeans, the tight gray shirt, the black cloth jacket and the white trainers. He looks like a Londoner out in the park, and she wonders where he found such clothing.

His eyes light up as he realizes she's the one he's looking for, and for a moment they just size each other up as if meeting for the first time all over again. Then he pushes her gently beneath the bus stop's tin roof, getting them both out of the rain and dragging her suitcase along with his foot.

"Eve," he says breathlessly, eyes sparkling with emotion as he stares, unashamed. It's his voice that convinces her that he's really here, he's not left already, that he's waited for her and found her. Without thinking she presses herself against him, cheek resting against the scratchy material of his shirt. His heart hammers beneath her ear, as energetic as ever. She smiles as he doesn't push her away, but rests his hands lightly on her back and touches his chin to the top of her head. It's the same way he'd comforted her once, but now she's not crying and he's not stiff, trying to pat the sadness out of her by force.

"Zacharias," she mumbles into his chest, breathing in the Labyrinthian cologne and faint bread smell, made stronger by the damp air around them. His arms tighten almost imperceptibly, but then his hands are on her shoulders and he's leaning her back, looking her over with a more studious eye on her clothing.

"You look… well," he finishes lamely, and despite the reserved motions of his body his eyes continue to shine at her. They dip to her mouth and back; she recognizes the look and leans back in, determined to have her kiss at least. Three fingers press against her lips and she muffles a startled gasp, the feel of them odd but not unwelcome against her mouth. "N-not now," he mutters, his little half-smile that she used to hate—hates for a minute again—twisting his face.

"O-oh." She feels the heat of embarrassment and prepares to turn away; it'll only be worse if he sees her reddened face, because now she's completely unsure and any questions from him will be her undoing. _Did I read it wrong? I had to have. He normally wouldn't give a care where—is there someone else after all? Could Mr. Cantabella have been wrong? I don't—_

"Eve." Her face is vermillion, her mouth wobbling as the shyness she's bottled up over six months nearly overwhelms her. " _Eve_." He draws her back in, ignoring how her hands are balled up at her chest. "Not now, because—" He pauses, looks around, bends closer and closer until he's whispering in her ear. "Look, when I start to kiss you, I'm not going to want to stop. If you don't mind, I'd like to save it until we get somewhere private." Another, slighter pause. "I've been trying to hold myself back, but 'tis nearly impossible."

"Z-Zach—"She stumbles over the first syllable, the only one able to make it past her lips as comprehension floods her and her entire body is filled with the prickling heat that was confined to her face just moments before. His hands tighten painfully on her shoulders as he backs away; their eyes meet and the same worn tension from before, familiar as ever and yet new each time, fills the space between them. His eyes flash and for a moment she wonders if he will kiss her anyway, and if she'll stop him should he try to. But then he's cool and collected, one arm sliding down to capture her hand as he easily picks up her suitcase and hoists it over his shoulder.

"C'mon, let's get you home," he says cheerfully, keeping a tight grip on her hand as he leads her through the crowds and down onto the rickety boards of the pier. He's had to park farther out this time, and as they walk she catches up and loops her arm through his, taking a fistful of his jacket sleeve. He obligingly slows his pace and they take on more of a leisurely stroll as the crowds thin. She sees the speedboat, a familiar white shape guarding the back seat. As they come up to the side and he tosses her suitcase into the back, she's observed and Constantine hesitates before growling, something akin to recognition in his eye.

"Mutt," she greets him playfully, and it's as if a switch has been flipped by her voice. His entire rear end wiggles, tail flapping blindly as he bark and barks, jumping in the seat.

"Calm down, boy," Barnham warns as the boat begins to rock. He steps in first, turning to offer his hand to her. she takes it and finds herself in the passenger seat between blinks. Constantine licks at her hair and cheek before he gets another command. "Sit!" The dog's hind end hits the cushion and he's still as a statue, transferring his focus from the woman to her suitcase. It'll be the most guarded suitcase in England, she knows, but she frowns at the thought of white hairs covering its black surface.

Looking over at him, she's not surprised that he refuses to catch her eye while turning on the boat and leaving the pier. She turns to watch it grow smaller, wondering if she'll be back in a week. There's a thump as Constantine's tail begins again, and she smiles at him before turning back to his owner. Waiting until they're out at sea, she hesitantly tests the waters and puts her hand on the edge of his thigh, too far away to be considered anything intimate. Almost immediately his hand claps over her own, holding it there forcefully as he takes a deep breath. The boat gives a jolt as the gas is pressed down too forcefully, then another as he overcompensates with the brake.

"M—Eve," he manages to choke, the raspy edge catching her off-guard. "Please, I've got to get you home. We're already late as it is." His fingers squeeze hers tightly before removing them and placing them back on her own leg. "L-later," he mutters, almost to himself, before putting both hands back on the wheel and settling down in the seat until his shoulders are nearly touching his ears.

She sits back in the seat, a smile on her face and her hand tingling on her lap as she looks out for the first signs of an island, her island, surrounded by an enormous wall.

* * *

 **Afterword** : I plan on having nine chapters, one for each day of the week plus prologue and epilogue. See you next time! (finger guns)


	2. Saturday

Espella is waiting on the docks; Eve can see her before she can see them. She can't bring herself to disturb the quiet humming of boat motor and sea that she's grown used to, but she raises her hand in greeting, waving through the fog that's cloaked the island in a misty sheath. She can recognize the moment Espella sees them, the crimson of her cloak unfolding and elongating as she leaps to her feet and runs the length of the rickety old boards.

"Eve!" Her voice is almost lost on the water, barely audible. "Eve!" She waves harder to show that she's heard; when Barnham pulls the boat up to the dock she's yanked from her seat before he can even turn off the motor and nearly dropped into the shallows. A lithe, firm body presses against her own, nearly strangling her with the force of the embrace. The black cat that carries her namesake winds around her legs once in welcome before sauntering along the dock to greet Constantine.

"Espella!" she manages to choke, her laughter more of a wheeze as the air fights to escape her lungs. She returns her friend's affections with a more restrained gesture. "I missed you," she admits, smelling bread and ocean on the blonde hair whipping against her face in the wind. She's surprised that she no longer has to look _down_ at her; rather, they're now eye to eye. It seems that Espella has done some growing in the past six months: her body is curvier in the right places, the hem of her cloak no longer brushing the tops of her boots and lines visible where her dress has recently been let down. Even her face is less round and childish, the cheeks slightly angled and bangs just a little longer. She's much changed, but when their eyes meet Eve can see the same gold-hearted, enthusiastic young woman she'd left.

"I've missed you too!" She ducks back in for a slightly less constricting hug. "I've so much to tell you!" Eve let her get her fill before detangling her arms from around her neck.

"Have you been waiting here all day?" Barnham asks, pulling himself up onto the dock by the pile, her suitcase thrown over his shoulder. "Never mind, I see the answer," he says disapprovingly, eyeing the red blotches already blossoming on the tops of her ears. Peering closer at her, Eve can see the same marks on the tip of her nose and her cheeks.

"Espella, you're roasted!" she exclaims, looking at her collarbone and arms. Even with the cloak, she's sure her younger friend got more than the proper amount of sunshine. She tries to tug the cloak aside for close observation, but her hands are batted away impatiently.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. The sun was hidden by the clouds, and this fog started rolling in a few hours ago."

"Cloudy days are the easiest to be burnt on," Barnham advises sternly, pursing his lips at her. "Mrs. Patty is going to have your head."

"She won't do it," Espella fusses. "I might do as I please on my off days. She can only say that 'tis my own fault for being foolish, if I burn at all." He stares a moment more, then reaches out and deftly smacks the exposed skin of her forearm with his palm. She squeaks, jumping and twisting her arm out of the way, rubbing it with a hiss. "Ouch! What'd you do that for?!"

"Proving my point," he replies calmly, pointing to the bright red blister rising on her arm.

"It's not _my_ fault!" she cries, poking at the blister with one finger. "The two of you were so late, I was wondering if Dad should try to get in touch with you over the phone. I was starting to worry."

"Thatfault is mine," Eve explains. "My bus broke down and I had to wait for another. It took longer than expected for it to arrive, and my mobile was turned off because I knew I'd get no signal on the island."

"Oh." Espella tilts her head. "But that's not really _your_ fault, Eve. You didn't break the bus, did you?"

"No, I'm afraid not." She smiles despite herself. "It would have ended up in a tree, had I decided to break it." Espella laughs, Barnham staring at them both without a clue as to what they're referring. "To be fair," she says when they've stopped, "I was afraid that Zacharias would have gone home by the time I reached the pier, and I'd have to hitchhike to Labyrinthia." Espella winds her arm around her waist, pulling their bodies flush as they start the short climb to the outer wall. Barnham bounds ahead with the luggage, Constantine and Eve beating him over the lip of the cliff first.

"Sir Barnham wouldn't have dared leave the mainland without you," Espella declares, looking up at his back. "Would you?"

"Absolutely not." He's waiting for them at the top, content to let them take their time. "I'd have stayed overnight, if I had to. I'd resolved to go to London myself if you hadn't shown up by tomorrow morning, just to make sure everything was alright."

"With what money?" Espella crows, taking a moment to catch her breath. They all look back towards the sea, hidden by the mist. "You only took enough for the pier fee, didn't you?"

"Aye, but there are ways to get to where you need to be without coin." There's an odd undercurrent to his voice, dangerous and effective, speaking of knowledge and practice. It reminds her of a riptide, unseen and yet… unsafe. He clears his throat and when he speaks again, it's gone. "There are always ways." Espella looks at him, hands on her hips.

"You mean to rob someone?" she asks incredulously, eyes wide.

"N-no!" His face colors and he lets the suitcase fall to his side. "What sort of man do you even _take_ me for!?" he growls. They both stare at him and he turns away. "Come along; everyone's waiting. They're already worried enough as it is, I'm sure."

"You don't have another surprise party planned, do you?" she asks warily, looking down at her rumpled traveling clothes. She doesn't need to see her hair to know that it's one large tangle from the boat ride, doesn't need to feel to know that it's greased with sea salt and frizzed from the drizzling rain at the pier. "I'm not fit to be seen."

"Only Aunt Patty and Dad." They walk arm in arm through the streets, the humid grey sending everyone indoors. They're the only ones on the path, the windows on either side casting candlelit glows. "Sir Barnham told everyone else to leave you alone today, or they'd have to answer to him." The man stiffens and she wonders if he can feel the force of her gaze on his back.

"'Tis not what I said," he protests coolly, refusing to look over his shoulder at them. "I only requested—that is, I know how much you enjoy your solitude, so I asked that everyone please give you a day to rest before rushing you." He pauses a moment. "I'm afraid some of the citizens are… chatterboxes." As much as she's missed them, she has to agree.

"He just wants you all to himself," Espella announces unashamedly, pointedly ignoring the red creeping up the knight's neck and avoiding Eve's warning glare. "What?" she asks innocently when the latter proved impossible. Lowering her voice, "I'm not a child, Eve. It's one thing to send letters to me, but to single out him… out of all the men in town… and every _week_ at that…." She trails off, smiling slyly. "Well, I know what that means."

"It means nothing!" she scowls, eyes darting between Espella's knowing expression and the tight muscles of Barnham's back. "It's not as though we've… had secret trysts or what have you!" Her cheeks burn at the mere mention of such illicit affairs. "Stop looking at me in that manner!"

"In what manner?" the false innocence was back, complete with fluttering eyelashes and a wry twist of the lips for effect. "Really, I think it's wonderful." Her voice turns serious, though she appropriately drops down to a whisper. "Just say the word anytime you need it, and I'll make a diversion so the two of you can escape." She winks. "Just let me be your maid of honor. Deal?"

" _M-maid of_ —Espella!" Her face is the one sunburnt, now. "We haven't even kissed properly, and already you're speaking of marriage?!" She forces her eyes to the ground, fighting for control of her facial muscles. "I refuse to speak any more about this in the middle of the street."

"But… you have kissed, then?" She bursts into a fit of excited giggles, leaning into Eve's side and forcing her to keep them both upright. "Ooh, Eve!"

"Espella!" she repeats, absolutely mortified. But even as humiliated as she feels, a small part of her is happy to feel it. It means she's home now, where she has someone to tease her and talk with her in a manner outside of a professional relationship. She's among friends. She hazards another glance at Barnham, who's either too far ahead to hear or is doing everything in his power to ignore the whispers behind him. The latter, she thinks, due to the tensed posture and quick footsteps. "Espella, _please_!" she tries again when her halfhearted scolding falls upon deaf ears. At least they're close to the bakery by now.

"Sorry, sorry. Only…" Espella leans in, nose brushing her cheek. "How was it? What was it like?"

"For goodness sake," she sighs. "It was just… the bus was there. There was no time." Espella nods sagely. "I'm not telling you this in the street!"

"Later, then." She offers.

"Oh… fine." Espella says no more about it until they reach the bakery. Eve ignores the girl as she sidles up to Barnham, whispering something in his ear. He blushes fiercely and looses his footing, stumbling up against the side of the bakery and nearly toppling the cloth canvas overhang.

The contents of her suitcase clatter and she frowns at Espella, who's already dipped inside, laughing too heartily to care.

* * *

When Mrs. Eclaire hugs her, it's like stepping into the past. There's a multitude of touch that ought to be repulsive—the baker's scratchy wool dress and the stiff, cool fabric of her linen apron, the sweat slicked creases of her elbows and neck, the suffocating warmth of her bosom, the tough padding of her mitts. But it's not repulsive at all; in fact, when she's wrapped up in the embrace, it calls back to her childhood and the touch of her parents. She allows warmth to build in her chest, shyly resting her chin on the tiny woman's shoulder and wishing that she were close enough, or brave enough, to rest her cheek on the stout breast and let her hair be stroked.

Coming to the bakery isn't like coming home, but rather like stopping at a well-liked inn. She hasn't lived here like Barnham or Espella, but at the same time there is a cozy sense of belonging—she can be part of this place. It runs without her, but something is added when she is here.

Everything is the same, as if she's never left at all. She runs her hand across the roughened wood of the rectangular table, the feeling familiar even after so many months. She breathes in the scent of fruit preserves and sugary crème and yeast, mingling together in her mind with the feeling of the baker's arms and the happiness of being in the company of people she cares for. Her throat tightens; she steps away from the flurry of activity as Barnham drops her suitcase out of the way beside a (newly repaired) shelf and Espella runs off to find her father.

"Excuse me." She crosses the counter into the bakery portion and opens the door to the stairs, climbing up into the residential area. The privy is empty, and she steps inside, closing the door behind her. Even this room is the same, with the well-known floral curtain before the claw-foot tub and the thin, uneven shelves above the toilet that hold towels and the family's—for that's really what they are, despite being unrelated—lotions and scents.

She catches sight of herself in the looking glass and winces; she's worse than she thought. Her hair is more tangle than not, the ends of the untidy mop frizzed by the humid mist. There's a windburn on her cheeks, her rumpled clothing beyond saving. She pumps out cold well water and splashes it on her face, shivering as she gropes for a towel. It makes the chapped skin look less severe, and she borrows Espella's red comb to detangle her hair, wincing in anticipation of the abuse her scalp is about to receive. She methodically took up the comb and begins at the bottom, plucking countless knots until her hair is smooth, piece by piece. When she's through it's still frizzed, but looking less like a rat's nest and more like proper hair.

She brushes off her clothes, yanking down hems and trying to clear out the largest wrinkles. Sniffing of her collar, she wonders if she smells of bus seats and pier fish. No one would say anything from politeness, but it wouldn't do to smell of sweat, cigarettes, and sea bream. It wouldn't hurt to borrow just a little perfume, either.

She originally goes for the bottle that still has the most inside, but when she opens it she realizes that it's Mrs. Eclaire's fragrance. It's floral, with something else that she can only describe as powdery; the scent of a middle-aged woman. It's nice, but not for her. Putting it back with a sniff, she pulls the tiny middle bottle and opens it. Ah, this is Espella's: vanilla and citrus, with a subtle hint of mint. She dabs some on, the smell refreshing her. Espella won't mind her perfume going to good use.

She eyes the unassuming third bottle warily, knowing that due to process of elimination, it must be Barnham's. Not that she'd even consider wearing man's cologne, but… her curiosity gets the better of her and she pulls it down, throwing a cautious, unnecessary glance to the still-closed bathroom door. The first whiff and he's with her, arms holding her close. She closes her eyes and sniffs again, this time with a more scientific air. Sandalwood or cedar, something tree-like. Spice… pepper? Nutmeg? And something woodsy, grassy, that she's caught a hint of before in the forest surrounding the Shade village. And below all that, something warm, _inviting_ ….

She quickly puts it back on the shelf, rubbing her nose. It won't do to dwell on what he smells like, or how much she might enjoy it. Already her mind was thinking about his normal scent, how it might smell with this layered on top: she couldn't consider it long, knowing that she'd have to go downstairs blushing.

There was a knock at the door, and she opens it to see him standing there. He stares at her strangely and she looks at their feet, hiding her face. Was she already red? Or was it something else that caught his attention?

"Erm… Espella sent me up to check on you." _Espella..._ she groans inwardly. Was the girl dead-set on getting the two of them alone as much as possible this week? "Supper's prepared, if you're in a mood to eat it." The moment the words leave his mouth, she is ravenous. The meager vending food fare she'd called a lunch is long gone from her system, and her stomach contracts hard enough that she puts a steadying hand to it. _Please don't growl, not in front of—_ Just as she thinks it, his stomach gurgles loud enough to echo in the small confines of the bathroom. "I suppose my own feelings go without saying," he laughs.

"Then let's go." She motions for him to take the lead, but he puts his hand on the small of her back and pushes her forward, just slightly. She stills, glances up to see him still staring at her. "What?"

"Ah! Hmm… nothing." She means to ask him to elaborate, but Espella's head pops up on the landing. She waves to them conspiratorially.

"Psst! I can't keep them occupied for much longer!" she whispers, as if the three of them are collaborating on some scheme together. Jerking her head at the stairs, she winks and then turns, calling out loudly to the lower floor. "Okay, I'll tell them that you're on your way!" Eve can no longer resist, placing a hand to her forehead and pressing the palm firmly against her skull, feeling the start of a headache. _I'll have to have a talk with her, it seems._

"Um… are the two of you… planning something?" he asks her, and she is grateful that at least he's as clueless as she. She wouldn't have put it past the two of them to put their heads together and brainstorm this cockamamie idea that Espella become their official guard/excuse-maker.

"No, she's—she's convinced that we're desperate for alone time," she blurts out, before immediately regretting it. It sounds superficial, both downplaying the clear sincerity of her best friend's feelings as well as her own towards him. _Not back an hour and already I'm making a fool of myself. I might as well have stayed in London._

"O-oh!" Despite the awkwardness of the situation, she has to admit that the way he blushes is… cute. She's never really noticed it before. "I… erm, _do_ you—that is: what's to say that I'm not desperate?" he asks. She knows what he means, but the moment is too good to pass up and she arches a single brow. He squirms, just like she thought he might, and she fights to keep from smiling. "I—I did not mean desperate as in _desperate_ , but… desperate in other ways—no, that's not—I'm not—"

"Zacharias." He shuts up, passing a hand over his flustered face. A thought occurs to her mind and she decides to ask, even though they're still waiting for them downstairs. "If you're so _desperate_ , then why did you keep your letters so…" she trails off, searching for the right word. "Impersonal?" She's caught him by surprise, and by the way his mouth twists, she realizes that he not only knows what she means, but also has an answer. "One might mistake your meaning."

"Did _you_ mistake my meaning?" he asks, instead of answering.

"It worried me," she replies truthfully. "Those letters, they weren't like you. I wondered… if maybe you'd changed your mind." She turns towards the stairs, letting her hand rest on the landing. He steps behind her and his fingers find the space between her shoulder blades, pressing lightly. When he speaks, his voice is close to her ear; she fights the shiver that runs down her spine.

"I never meant to concern you," he admits. "And… you should know that I haven't changed my mind. Nor—nor am I likely to, anytime soon. I—" He pauses. "This is not a conversation to have when others are waiting on us. Ask me again when we _are_ alone, and I'll tell you the full truth." He moves past her, and in the quick glimpse she can catch of his face she sees a resigned, serious expression. She lets him go down the stairs, watching his retreating back until he disappears through the archway.

 _What does he mean by that?_ She's no closer to an answer than she was before she asked. Instead, more questions swirl within her. She descends slowly, thinking of her father for some reason. It's not until she reaches the bottom step that it dawns on her:

The last time she saw her father alive… that was the face he made.

* * *

It's only her own stomach that stops her from eating every bite of the buffet Mrs. Eclaire has prepared for them. That being said, she manages to down three helpings of golden-skinned roast chicken with juicy, succulent stuffing, of salads, breads, pasta, beans, meat pies, potatoes with gravy, baked fruits… no amount of modern fare from London could top the fresh taste of a proper Labyrinthian meal. And then, for dessert! Fruit cobbler, warm dumplings swimming in syrup and topped with ice cream: an added luxury in the absence of refrigeration.

No one talks during the meal, everyone relishing the food until there's nothing remaining but a hot bun that Barnham and Espella get into a heated argument over. Mrs. Eclaire plucks the bun from beneath their noses and feeds to Constantine, her beady eyes narrowed at the two adults fighting like children. The Storyteller, sitting across from Eve and to Barnham's right, leans back in his chair. He's wearied, but finally addresses her in the silence that's grown since the last clink of silverware.

"I'd begun to worry about you, Eve." His voice is as quiet and firm as ever, at odds with his wild gray mop of a head. "You took so long in coming." His eyes slide over to Barnham, the ghost of an accusation shimmering in the grey depths. _I-is he thinking what I think he's thinking?_ Even though there's no conjecture, and tossing out denials would just throw them both into a suspicious light, she can't help but blush at the implication.

"Y-yes," she agrees, clearing her throat as she flattens her napkin on her lap. "The bus had an accident on the way, and I had to wait for another." She hurriedly tells the story, leaving out no details and yet not embellishing any finer points. It wouldn't do for him to think that she wasn't telling the truth. The thought that he'd even suspect her, of all people, is both bothersome and confusing. Surely he didn't think that she would forgo a reunion with friends to… to….

Barnham keeps his eyes on the table, but the one time theirs meet she sees that he's grinning like a fool. _Do you think this is amusing, Sir Knight?!_ That he'd think of them in the boat, of all places! As though they were two hormonal teens who had no sense of self control, on the _pier_ , in front of every poor fisherman and rich yachter in that part of the county! Then, the more she considers it, the funnier her brain seems to find it. In a baser sort of humor, the thought of them on a boat is… well, it might be diverting, but only to think about him worrying over it! And it certainly wasn't the time to be laughing, when they were all at the table together!

"Sounds like quite the adventure," Arthur says when she's finished speaking. "And a tiresome one at that."

"Yes, you could say that." She feels the day's events starting to weigh on her shoulders, clouding her mind. "I'd hate to cut the evening short, but perhaps I should go home and rest up," she says politely. Barnham makes to rise, but the Storyteller stops him with a hand.

"I'll bring Eve home," he says in a manner far too paternal and condescending for her liking. As if this was another excuse for the two of them to be alone. Not that she'd mind him in her house, far away from the town and any prying eyes…. The mere thought has her blanching; since when did she connive ways to be alone with someone, a _man_ someone?

"Dad, Sir Barnham can carry Eve's suitcase for her easier than you can," Espella points out, but her father gives her an odd look that sends her silent. Sullen, but silent.

"Eve can carry her own bag remarkably well, I do believe. After all, she's a fully functioning adult, and chivalry only goes so far when it comes between women and the elderly." He stands, gives himself a moment to adjust. "When you're ready," he addresses her.

"I'll see you all tomorrow," she says, rising. "Thank you for the meal. It was delicious, as always."

"Come early enough tomorrow and I'll make you breakfast," Mrs. Eclaire promises. "Fruit pancakes with Eldwitch syrup." She's never heard of Eldwitch syrup before, but it sounds promising.

"Let me at least walk you both as far as the garrison," Espella prompts, but her father merely shakes his head.

"Espella, I would like to take this time to talk _business_." This takes them both by surprise.

"Business? But she's tired!"

"Please!" She surprises herself with how loud her voice sounds compared to the rest. "I'm not…" she forces a smile to her face. "I'm not too tired to walk myself. I don't need an escort, however kindly it was meant."

"Eve," Mr. Cantabella starts, but she shakes her head and cuts him short.

"I'm sure any business can wait until tomorrow, can it not?" Another smile, even more forced as she inches towards her bag. "Please don't take offense," she adds to Espella, who's risen from the table as well, "but Sir Barnham is right. I think I just need some quiet time. Alone." She grabs her suitcase and handbag, clutching both strap and handle tightly in one hand. "The walk home will do me nothing but good, even if I am by myself."

"But—" It's Mrs. Eclaire that stands and silences the Storyteller this time, and something in her eye suggests both understanding and sympathy. She might be running from any supposed business of the Storyteller, she might be trying to avoid a conflict of interest between Barnham and the former, or she may just be ready to be alone for a while. Even she doesn't really understand further than the tone of their voices is setting her on edge.

"Please come by for the pancakes, then." She smiles, ushering Eve out the door and blocking the other three in. "I'll save them warm for you, so you don't have to rush on the trip. Sleep well, my dear."

"Thank you," she replies, grateful for more than the offer of another meal. A smile is all she's given before she's left alone in the street.

 _And so was the morning and evening of the first day._

* * *

 **Afterword** : A little of a short chapter, but actually chapter 3 is where things start heating up, in more ways than one. ;) Letters, kisses, and a comedy of fools await what would otherwise be a leisurely Sunday!


	3. Sunday I

She wakes more refreshed than she's been in a while.

Living in the hotel, she had grown used to the large, comfortable bed. She'd even worried about her first night home, and whether she'd be able to sleep without the sounds of the street below her window, or the bright lights shimmering through the sheer curtains, or the unmistakable shifting _shh_ of starched sheets rubbing together as she turned.

But thankfully, she had slipped off into dreamless slumber the moment her head touched the pillow. Perhaps it had been the soft chirrup of crickets and frogs in the lake, quiet in lieu of car alarms and sidewalk clatter. Perhaps it had been the sun-dried sheets, fresh and aired for her arrival. Perhaps it had simply been the fact that she was home, with the moonlit darkness surrounding her and the goose feather pillow beneath her head cradling her.

She's never grown out of rising with the sun, even with western facing hotel windows. The first rays of light that hit the bed rouse her and she stretches, shivering a little in the cool morning air. Walking to the window, she opens it and breathes in the perfumed air of the flower-strewn fields. Leaning on the casement, she lets the breeze kiss her cheeks as she watches the dew-drenched world glitter in the waxing dawn.

As she relaxes, bare feet rubbing against her calves by turn to keep her toes warm, a queer mix of relief and homesickness stir in her at the same time. Homesickness shouldn't play a part, being that she _is_ home, but it's the same heart wrenching feeling she's grown used to. Part of her is exceedingly happy that she can look out on her beloved stomping grounds once more, but the other is saddened that she'd left. Rubbing her neck, she lets the view sink into the background as she considers this. If she wants to keep her position as CEO, she'll be giving up her home again. This time, it might be permanently.

 _Stop._ She shakes her head, withdrawing back into the bedroom. There's more than enough time to think about these things later in the week. It ought not to be that she spends all week fretting about a choice. Better to live in the moment, as they say, at least until she has more time to think about it. Espella and the others will be expecting her at the bakery for breakfast, and showing a glum face is out of the question.

Despite the lack of modern conveniences like pulsating jets, button-controlled temperature, and precision showerheads, she finds a lengthy soak in her battered old claw foot tub just as rejuvenating. Sure, the copper pipes leave a red tinge to the water and the entire structure rattles when there's too much pressure, but once the steaming water is in the tub everything is perfect. After all, a bath is a bath is a bath, no matter where one is or what it's in.

She can't help but smile when she catches the scent of her favorite shampoo. She'd brought some along with her to London, but after it ran out she was forced to wash with store-bought. This wholly-Labyrinthian product isn't available in stores off the island. She has to force herself to save product, a little going a long way as she thoroughly works the lather into her hair. Her soap smells of roses, and the fragrance permeates the heat of the bathroom when she begins washing. She even goes the extra mile to shave, letting the steam from the tub open her pores. When she's through, the humidity of the bath leaves a glowing sheen on her face that has to be wiped away after she goes back into the bedroom.

Staring in the mirror as she combs out her hair, clad only in her towel, she tells herself that self-pampering is perfectly fine. That she's just taking in the atmosphere of a proper holiday. That all this extra time she's taking is for her alone, and it's only because she's in the mood to do it in the first place. Though, of course, if certain people _also_ appreciate it…. She finds herself smiling at her reflection for no particular reason and rolls her eyes.

 _This is all entirely ridiculous,_ she thinks as she carefully dries her hair and styles it so that the curls, pulled back from her face with a simple purple ribbon, look effortless. _As if he's ever paid attention to a girl's appearance before_. But, naturally, none of this is for him. It's all just self-indulgence. Even the perfume, used sparingly enough that anyone besides herself would only get the slightest whiff of vanilla.

She's more than happy to ditch the modern, constraining clothing of London. Looking in her wardrobe, she pulls out her favorite pair of slacks. Left behind to make room for one more business suit, she couldn't help but miss them. Every pair of slacks she tried in London was too form-fitting, too tight where they shouldn't be. She slips into these with a sigh, only to cut it off at a gasp. They still fit, but…. She turns back to the mirror, twisting slightly. They're snug; the gyros are sitting on her hips. Not enough to have a major impact, but she's most definitely filled out the slacks.

Turning again, she gnaws on her lip. Maybe they're not _that_ tight. After all, she's grown used to wearing either pencil skirts or joggers, depending on the day. It's been months since she's tried on something that followed the curve of her rear the way these do. No matter which way she turns, they aren't in danger of ripping. _It's all in my head, surely._ She ignores the lingering doubt and pulls on one of her favorite blouses, cinching it with a bodice she hadn't had time to wear before leaving Labyrinthia. Turning again in the mirror, she nods. A good outfit: not too formal, not trying too hard.

She's not sure what she's even trying _for_.

* * *

The streets of the town are deserted, but in a different way than she's used to. It's only from lack of bodies to fill them; she's already passed the farmlands where little silhouettes were stretched to the horizon, hard at work as they tended crops. She can hear the rattle of Mary the goatherd's cart on another street not far away. Three alleys ahead, a green streak that can only be Lettie Mailer rounds the corner on her way towards the Square, bag bulging and a whistle on her lips, too enthused in her morning's rounds to pay attention to one woman walking by her lonesome.

At Rouge's, snoring men recline in chairs before the cobblestones, leaned up on two legs against the side of the pub as the breeze creaks the wrought-iron signs and rustles their stained collars. She passes quietly, and not a single one stirs. On the steps, Mr. Punchenbaug snores loudly, arm over his eyes against the sunlight. She can see he still keeps to his old poison bottle; _at least one can say he's a resilient old drunkard_.

As she passes, the front door to the tavern opens, bumping against the old man's fat belly. An elegant foot emerges, inelegantly prodding the man and causing him to turn over with a sleepy grunt. Opening all the way, the tavern owner steps out with a broom, key dangling from her fingers. Their eyes meet and for a moment, the women merely size each other up.

"Well… so the rumors are true." Rouge's tone isn't quite friendly, nor is it at all icy. It's merely reserved; she's is used to it, having heard the same from the woman when she carried the mantle of High Inquisitor. "I thought I remembered Zacky saying something about you coming back to us."

"I'm visiting for the holiday week," she explains hesitantly, trying to decide what level of informality would be proper to take. Rouge nods as if she's heard it before—and she may have—sweeping around the still-sleeping Emeer with practiced motions.

"So you'll be leaving afterwards?" It's not really a question, but she still answers as though it were.

"I…I'm not sure yet. Mr. Cantabella is giving me until the weekend to decide." The sweeping slows, the bartender staring at her boots as though thinking through some important decision. Then the broom is leaned against the door, arms crossing as she turns to look down at Eve.

"What are you to Zach?" she asks bluntly, leaving her shocked and puzzled. "Do you care at all for him? Do you want to be more than friends?"

"I—well—why are you aski—"

"Before you left, he was in here every night drinking himself silly." She thumbs behind her, to the darkened windows. "Just between us ladies—don't go getting his hopes up if you plan on sailing out of here come Sunday."

"I—I don't want to hurt him, if that's what you're insinuating." She ignores the urge to match the woman's body language, fisting her hands together behind her back as she squares off with her.

"He's got his heart set on being a baker now that Inquisitor is out of the question." Rouge continues on as though she never spoke at all. "It's gonna be hard for him to do that if he's chasing you to London. If you're not serious about him… give it up." She scratches her nose, jaw twitching as she nearly rocks her heel onto Emeer's nose.

"And if I am serious?" she asks in return. "Why do you even care?" The older woman looks away, rubbing at the side of her mouth and tracing the outline of her lipstick. "I think if he gave you profits—"

"I'm not that kind of woman," she snaps, too harshly. "I care about the big lughead, alright? Not in that way," she adds when she sees the slender brow being arched in her direction. "I just don't want to have to watch him crying into his ale just because his heart's broken. And I want to see him following his dreams. He can't do that if he's pining his life away for someone who doesn't care for _him_ the way he cares for _her_." She shifted uncomfortably, uncrossing and re-crossing her arms. "He'll put on a brave face to make a person happy, even if he's hurting underneath."

"I know." She purposefully untenses her muscles, creating an air of ease with a relaxed stance. Its one of the tricks she's learned in business meetings, how to influence others with the way you carry yourself. "You forget that I used to work one-on-one with him every day."

"I—then you know where I'm coming from." The red mouth forms into a tight little frown.

"And how would you think he felt if he knew you were sticking up for him? Making decisions on his behalf, even?" Rouge looks away with a slight huff, brow wrinkling as she considers the question.

"Look, just answer the question. Do you care for him?"

"I do." This seems to surprise her. "Enough that I wouldn't dare play games with his feelings, like you're suggesting I would."

"Don't take it the wrong way." She picks the broom back up. "I just want to make sure he's not miserable, alright? This town's seen enough misery as it is." She turns her back, sweeping in front of the door.

"Miss Rouge." The sweeping pauses. She falters, trying to understand what her own minds wants her to say. "Don't ever think… that I didn't think about it too. About everything you just said."

"What?" She turns halfway, hand on her hip.

"Don't think that I never thought about… what might happen between us if I chose—choose—to go back. About what we'd do. I left because I thought he didn't feel about me the way I felt about him, you know." She turns around fully, her mouth opening in a little 'o'. Eve continues, her face burning. "But… I didn't expect to like my job as much as I do, either. It's going to be hard for me, either way. I don't know _how_ it's going to work out. It's not that I don't care. I care a little too much, I think."

"Yeesh." Again her nose is scratched. "I didn't want your life story." Rouge looks, appropriately enough, as self-conscious hearing it as she is telling it. But her eyes are still serious, searching for something. Whether or not she finds it, Eve can't tell. But she nods to herself and turns away, picking up the sweeping motion once more in the process. "Don't go around thinking that I think the worst of you, just because I'm forward. I'm like this with everyone. Just don't hurt him too badly, alright? That's all I'm asking."

"I appreciate… that you care." The bartender's shoulders shake as she chuckles.

"Whatever." She waits for something else, but it's clear that she's being pointedly ignored now. Shrugging to herself, she walks the rest of the alley and emerges in the empty marketplace. No one's set up shop yet, the black market dealers having gone home for the night and the legitimate ones not yet shown up for the day.

 _He was in here every night drinking himself silly._ That sentence, of all the ones directed at her by the tavern keeper, plays on repeat in her head. The words ring out in time with the click of her heels against the stone walk, boring themselves into her skull. He had admitted to avoiding her those last few weeks, so long ago now. It had hurt her, but only now did she really think about how it must have felt to him. It hurt to think about what turmoil he must have been in, trying to convince himself that seeing her happy would make it all worthwhile in the end.

"Eve." Absorbed in her thoughts, the name barely registers. "Eve?"

"Oh, what?" She has to stop short to keep from running into Arthur Cantabella, who stands outside the bakery. His smile, already strained, falls away entirely.

"Is everything alright?" She nods, forcing a pleasant look on her face.

"Of course. I was only thinking about some news I just heard." It's not a lie, so it's all the easier to say without guilt or suspicion. He nods, but the smile doesn't return. "Is everything alright _here_?"

"Ah, it seems as though we've a bit of a to-do. Espella has come down with an illness of some sort…." He pulls a handkerchief from his vest pocket, dotting at his temple. "Mrs. Eclaire is inclined to believe it's from the sunburn, but I don't… well, I'm no doctor, but—" He shrugs helplessly.

"An illness, you say?" Somehow, she can't truly believe it. But, just to get inside and see for herself, she plays along.

"She seemed fine yesterday, but Mrs. Eclaire called before daybreak and asked me to come down."

"Let me go up to her," she suggests innocently. _We'll see just how_ _ **sick**_ _she really is… and for her sake, I hope she's truly ill. Otherwise, I'm in the mood to give her a proper tongue-lashing._

In the bakery, all is quiet. There is an unattended ball of dough on the floured counter, the flames crackling merrily in the oven. With the Storyteller following, she climbs the steep staircase to the second level and makes her way to the end of the hall, where the door to Espella's room stands open.

Inside, Espella lay on the bed, limbs thrown about in a picture of feverish languidness. It was true that her face, neck, and arms were dreadfully crimson, rivaling the shade of the cloak draped across the chair. With her hair unbraided and strewn on the pillows around her, breath wheezing through chapped lips, eyelashes fluttering, she looks as though she might truly be ill. Eve the cat sits in the window, tail swishing as she watches the scene with calm, wide eyes.

"Espella?" Walking up to the bedside, she stares down with slight wariness.

"Oh, Eve…." The lashes flutter more before finally opening, a weak hand reaching up to grasp for hers. "I'm so sorry… I had such a nice… day planned. But now… 'tis for naught."

"Hmm…. _Espella_." She wasn't really sick. No one sick ever talked like that, with all this 'for naught' nonsense. If she was to be believed, Death himself was knocking at the bakery door with her name at the top of his list. She opens her mouth, fully intending to ask what this was about. For a quick moment, their eyes meet and the same old obstinate glow lights up the younger woman's from within. _Espella, don't you dare make an opening for yourself—_

"D-dad, did he come up with you? Dad?" she croaks weakly. _You—!_ Eve can barely stop herself from scoffing at the practically pathetic display of melodrama. Surely Mr. Cantabella can't believe this absurd acting, can he?

"Shh, sweetheart. Dad's here." He's eating it up, blinding as always by overbearing affection for his only child. Espella reaches for him, a tender smile gracing her thin, dehydrated lips. There's a creak of floorboards and she turns to see Mrs. Eclaire standing in the door—sweet, wonderful Patty, who's eyeballing her young charge as if she's never viewed anything quite so preposterous in all her life.

"Eve… I wanted to go with you to the theatre today." Espella lets out a dry cough. "But I can't, not like this."

"Maybe we should take her to the mainland." Mr. Cantabella stands, hand over his mouth. "Pneumonia, staying out in the fog all day yesterday. Or sunstroke, can you get a cough with sunstroke?"

"Please, Dad… not the hospital." She presses a pale hand to her scarlet forehead. "I can't stand the thought of that food…."

"No, of course not." Again he's reaching for her, plumping the pillows, adjusting the coverlet over the bare part of her legs not covered by her nightgown. "Anything you want. We'll make the doctors come here if we have to."

"A day of rest and she'll be fine," Mrs. Eclaire says all-too-knowingly, shaking her head. "I don't think— _this_ —is life threatening."

"Rest?" Espella coughs again, less convincingly this time. "Yes, rest… is what I need. Eve, take… the tickets…. On the dresser." She barely gathers the strength to point. Eve stares at her for a long minute, hearing the ticking of the clock in the hallway and wondering how long Espella plans on making her play along with this farce. When nothing changes, she turns with a sigh to get the two slips of paper from underneath the hairbrush. "Mr. Barnham… will have to go with you… in my stead." The tickets flutter back out of her fingers. _**That's**_ _what this is all about!? Still trying to get us alone!?_

"What?" She turns back, her smile too tight to be genuine. "Zacharias is busy in the bakery, Espella. I can't keep him from his _job_."

"Oh, Aunt Patty." It sounds too Espella-ish, but no one other than Eve seems to notice the lapse in character. "Surely he can take… just one day off… for Eve."

"He may not even want to go."

"With you?"

" _Espella_." She takes a deep breath before waving the tickets. "I'd hate to give up this chance to do something together," she says, making sure every word speaks of her doubt about the entire ordeal. Mr. Cantabella doesn't seem to hear, but Mrs. Eclaire smiles at her. "Maybe we should wait for another day. After all, Mrs. Eclaire seems to be of the mind that you'll feel better tomorrow."

"No, no… you go… ask Mr. Barnham right now…" The last two words are spoken with an undercurrent of frustration. _Did you think I'd make this easy for you?_ Eve clicks her tongue and she sees Espella's hand fist in the blanket. "Surely… he won't say no… to you." Mrs. Eclaire inclines her head just enough to get her own message across. _See what I have to live with?_

 _I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all this._

"You might as well go ask him, dearie." Mrs. Eclaire backs out of the doorway. "Looks like poor Espella isn't going anywhere, and those tickets shouldn't go to waste." She points out his doorway, though she's been in there once before. Of course, the baker has no way of knowing that, so she nods her thanks as she steps out. "And since you're so ill, luvvie, I think we'll have to dose you up with castor oil and… hmm, maybe some broth. I think too many rich sweets on your poor little tummy might hurt it, don't you, Mr. Cantabella?"

"It can't hurt to have just one or two sweets, can it?" he tries hopefully in his daughter's favor.

Leaving it behind her, she walks down the hall and knocks on the door politely. There's a scuffle from inside and she hears Constantine sniffing at the door, and then a scatter of nails against wood as he's pushed aside. The door opens and she's faced with shirtless chest, all tanned skin and muscle. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, but it's still enough to make her eyes widen and mouth dry.

"Oh!" The door shuts in her face, and there's a mad scramble before it opens again. Now he's thrown on a shirt, buttoned wrong and hanging sideways on his form. Part of his chest is still visible above the uneven collar, and a scar running just below his collarbone catches her eye. She tears away from it, forcing herself to look him in the eye. His hair is mussed and he's clearly just risen from bed; its an oddly cute look and she feels a blush trying to push its way onto her skin.

"Espella is playacting sick," she explains quickly, her voice lowered so that any squeaks or breaks can't be picked up. "She wants you to go to the theatre with me instead of her."

"Oh, for the love of—" He looks down at her before waving her in. The moment she steps into the room, Mrs. Eclaire's voice rings out clearly.

"Door open, Zacharias." He freezes, back stiff and fingers tight on the knob. The blush overtakes her and she covers her face with her hands, trying to rub it away before he can see. _As if we'd do anything with three people in the next room over!_ She looks around at the room, nothing changed after all these months other than the bed being unmade.

When he turns around, she can see lingering red on his cheeks as well; it makes her feel slightly better, since embarrassment is always easier when shared. He clears his throat, laughing nervously before jumping to attention.

"Oh! Forgive me, let me—" He rushes past her, muttering apologies as he yanks the bedclothes up hastily and offers her a seat on the wrinkled coverlet. She smiles patiently at him, sitting on the very edge of the bed. Constantine jumps up beside her, flopping down in the sunshine streaming through the window and releasing a cloud of dust and white hair that spirals into the air. "Consta—sorry, sorry!" he waves the hairs away, one hand holding up the loose pants that seem to be slipping with every movement. They slide a little lower than his hips and she's suddenly unable to look away, both silently urging them lower and urging _him_ to yank them back up before the mystery's revealed.

"I'll just—" He runs wildly around the room, gathering strewn articles of clothing and throwing them into a messy pile before pulling new ones from an open trunk. "Urk… I'll go—bathroom—" Though she's not said a word, he seems mortified and disappears down the hall. She hears the bathroom door slam shut and resists the urge to laugh at his hurried manner.

She reaches over and rubs her fingers down the soft fur of Constantine's stomach while she waits. His tail thumps and he lets out a pleased breath, stretching his legs with a groan before rolling onto his back. She rubs his stomach as well, looking up at the corkboard still over his bed. It's as messy as ever, save the picture of him and puppy-Constantine… as well as the picture of them together. It's moved its way down to the lower righthand corner, but there's nothing covering it and it's slightly creased. She tilts her head, imagining him lying and staring at it before going to sleep, his fingers twisting for months until it's bent into position.

Standing up, she walks around the room slowly, taking the time to snoop without actually snooping. His dumbbell is behind the door, obviously used as a prop from time to time. The trunk holds nothing but his clothing, crammed in together though neatly folded. It's relatively empty, and she can see a few messy items in the bottom that have been darned repeatedly. His armor is shining on its stand, her warped reflection watching her in the breastplate. It unnerves her that she can still remember the feeling of cool metal against her cheek, at war with the hot stream of tears.

His desk is the messiest item in the room; he clearly spends most of his time there. She finds every letter that she wrote him neatly stacked in their open envelopes, held together between the wall and a large wooden carving of Constantine that bears Cutter's artistic mark. Papers with drawings, scribbled recipes, machine manuals, an oily wrench, and his quill are scattered across the surface. On the other side, however, she finds another stack of letters. Thinking its his personal mail, she nearly looks past it until she sees the name on the topmost letter.

It's her own.

Curiosity plucks at her bravado and she reaches out, brushing aside the top letter just enough to read the one under it. It's unaddressed, like the top one, but her name is still on the center of the envelope along with the name of a corresponding month she was in London. _Eve._ She picks up the stack, counting five letters in all, and flicks through them with a practiced hand. _Eve. Eve. Eve. Eve. Eve._

"They're your letters." She jumps guiltily, spinning on her heel to see him standing in the door.

"I—I'm not prying, I just—saw—" He walks forward and takes them from her, digging around on the desk until he finds a spare bit of string. He ties them the same way Mrs. Eclaire ties twine around deliveries before pressing them back into her hands. "I-I don't understand." His eyes flick to the door and back before he murmurs an answer, still conscious of the crowd in Espella's room.

"Yesterday, you asked me why I wrote my letters so… coolly." He looks down at the stack, his hands still on top and hers holding them up underneath. "The truth is, these are the letters I wrote to you that hold my true feelings. I never sent them because I intended them to be for you only."

"What do you mean?" she laughs, the sound hiding her growing anxiety. "Lettie would never—"

"No," he agrees. "But Ms. Mailer would not be the one putting the letter into your hand, either."

"Are they… bad?" He smiles, but doesn't answer. "Can I read them now?"

"No, or rather—" He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Wait until you get home."

"Are they—" Bad wasn't the word she wished to use, not again, but anything more risqué would have her redder than Espella's burnt face. " _bad_?"

"'Tis merely everything I wished to say to you these six months past." Again he was vague, nodding at her to tuck the letters into her pocket. She did so to appease him, shivering when he bent even closer. His nose brushes the hair near her ear and she stiffens, simultaneously freezing and melting. "Now, do you wish to go to the theatre?"

"Do you?" she whispers back, clutching at the tickets still in her fist.

"If it pleases you." She looks down at the tickets, where the title 'Comedy of Fools' is printed in bold.

"Well, the tickets are already bought," she admits. "I suppose it would be a shame to waste them."

"Then we'll go." He straightens up and she ignores the strange joy it gives her. Having him that close is… well, its not as if she's never had him so close before. He always used to drape his arm across her shoulders, and they did ride many of the machines together during reconstruction. And there was that undercurrent of tension there, but it was different than this. That was tentative, malleable, something that either could or couldn't be. This is something that _is_ , that will be when the time and place are right. It's exciting, but daunting. A paradox.

 _He_ is a paradox.

* * *

 **Afterword** : I said before that I'd have one chapter for each day. I retract that statement immediately, because I'm the author and I… want to space out chapters so they won't be so long.

Definitely not about me being unable to find things for them to do for seven days and needing an excuse to skip as I see fit. Nope, nope, not at all. Just remember, I do everything for the sake of having a good, coherent story… I think… _blarg_.


	4. Sunday II

"I think we may be early."

The Courthouse is the same as always, sitting peacefully in the clearing with nothing but the call of birds in the midst of their morning song. Only one person occupied the place, leaning back in a rickety old chair and propping his boots on the admissions table. Balmung, she recognizes, as his head tips sideways during a snore. His dark bangs flutter with every breath, his bare arms crossed over his chest. He still wears the Foxy fan club shirt he must have been sporting the night prior.

"Oi. Wake up." Barnham gives him a helpful prod, pushing the toe of his boot back enough that, should he have been awake, he would have surely felt it. "Sir Balmung? Sir Bal—'tis midmorning, you lay-about!" he curses, this time trying to shove the boot off the table and upset the man's balance. "Wake up!" he tries, using his sternest Head-of-the-Knights tone. The man sleeps on, unaware.

"Here, let me try." She takes a deep breath, steadying herself and bringing forth the High Inquisitor. At first, she worries that she may be rusty, having kept the shrewish persona at bay for all these months. Darklaw was fine for business meetings or disciplinary actions, but she hadn't wanted to inject fear into the Labrellum employees for no good reason. Her hand slaps the table, and with the first jar of pain radiating up her arm she winces—Darklaw was used to having golden claws instead of bare hands. Still, the motion is enough to break the lulling cycle of snoring.

"Vigilantes, at _attention_!" She's heard Boistrum use the phrase often enough—though the Vigilantes were disbanded after the last witch trial, and are no more a real society than the Foxy Fanatics, or whatever it was they called themselves nowadays. It works.

"Milady!" The man scrambles from his seat, still mostly asleep, and offers a sharp salute before the cobwebs clear fully from his eyes. Looking around, his gaze narrows on the two before him and he flushes darkly, squirming in place. "I mean—er, no, that's what I meant," he admits, head tilting. "Ah, hmm. Welcome back, Lady Darklaw."

"It's—"

"I know." He tilts his head the other way, tongue working in his jaw before letting out a suppressed yawn. "But old habits die hard." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Here for the show?"

"Aye." Barnham fishes for the tickets in his pocket, his watch catching on his belt loop. "Hang on, it's—"

"Might as well wait. I'm not supposed to take the tickets until noon." He hunts around in his own trousers, pulling out a dented pocket watch along with several loose papers and some lint. "You've got half an hour, more or less." He considers them another moment before holding out his free hand. "Give 'em here; just don't go past the main antechamber until time. They'll be setting up still."

"Fair enough." She turns to her companion. "Do you mind if we go to the office? I want to see—" She pauses, not sure exactly _what_ she wants to see.

"Not at all." He motions her ahead of him, nodding over his shoulder at the Vigilante. She sees Balmung staring at her nice clothing, at his fingers hovering near the small of her back, mouth slack. Then, as if sensing that she's noticed, he scratches his chin and turns away, too quickly, no questions asked. Perhaps none are needed, in his opinion.

Then again, even when they were Inquisitors most of the town considered them a power couple. She laughs to herself; power couple, what a _modernized_ term. Walking the familiarly damp halls, she considers the notion. What was it? Could a man and a woman not work together without heading behind the barn, as the locals would say? The modern romance novels would certainly agree on that point, but she knew of many men and women who worked side by side without ever thinking about being more than friendly. Even Fo—well, the Vigilantes are a special case. If she were to hear that they slept in the same bed, all ten of them side-by-side with Boistrum on one end and the Wordsmith on the other, she wouldn't bat an eye.

Or was it that… they had good chemistry, even back then? She turns the corner, hand rising to touch the stone wall habitually as she navigates the narrow steps. The stone is coarse beneath her fingers, hewn from jagged rocks that were never filed down. The uniform concrete blocks of London don't exist here. _Have I grown soft, then? I don't remember these halls being so rough…. Or so cold._ The nitre near the ceiling puts an extra chill in the air, reminding her that they are at ground level, if not already beneath it. Even farther below are the dungeons, dark and dirty, absolutely unacceptable in modern times. Even the hardest criminal, convicted to death row, would be given more than a hay-strewn floor and a splintery bench.

The cold is inside her now, and she shivers.

"Your clothes are thin." She nearly jumps when he murmurs, voice close to her ear due to the difference of their heights equaling out on the staircase. "Are you too cold?" _Yes_ , she thinks, but shakes her head. It's not a cold that sun-warmed air can fix. It's a cold that's from the past, trickling into her from the Audience Room, where she lay on the couch after fainting. Even before, perhaps, an icy breath whistling lightly in her wake as she stormed from her father's house. Or even the invisible autumn frost that landed on her shoulders, and hers alone, after a night surrounded by leaping flames.

His hand finds hers and she nearly jerks away because it's _warm_ , hotter than the fire that licked at her and left its mark over a decade ago. He must see something in her expression, because his fingers immediately loosen and she has to tighten her own before the heat slips away, lost to her entirely. She can't bring herself to smile, but he envelops her hand in his and pushes forward, leading the way down to the office they once shared.

Is the rest of him as hot? She wonders, and has the notion of laying herself across him as though he were nothing more than a heating pad, an iron skillet beneath her blankets in winter, and letting him slowly melt all the accumulating frost until she is _her_ again. Does he feel the cold? Does he hold onto her hand even though the bite of her winter is warring against the summer in his palm? Does his heat override her cold? Do they cancel each other out somewhere between her skin and his? Or does he even pay enough attention to care?

She can't remember if they had chemistry as coworkers. She remembers hating him, trying to grasp at the last bits of malice the same way she's clutching at his hand. How even then, in his own way, he managed to melt a little of her at the time until he was under her skin, the way he is now. Would he have willingly held her hand, even back when they shared an office? Did his regard for her stretch that far into the past? Or… As if in answer, the envelopes in her pocket press against her thigh, corners digging into her hip.

"Zacharias…." He stops, turns, and she realizes she'd said his name aloud. "T-there's no light down here." A weak excuse, but a true one nonetheless. Even now, she's feeling her way by muscle memory alone. His hand is faint in the fading light, and only his eyes glitter up at her from the darkness below.

"No one's touched your office since you left," he replies calmly. "There should still be some petrol in that electric making machine." He falters. "You want me to go down first and turn it on? You can wait here." She doesn't want him to let go of her, not yet, but the thought of telling him that is too much.

"Er—no. That's not necessary." She waits, and then gives his hand a little shake. "We can keep going."

"Alright."

The office is pitch black, with neither window nor candle to light. The generator is near the door; his hand slides from hers as he fumbles his way towards it, and in its absence her hand feels colder than ever. There's a click and the little light blinks green, followed by the growl of the ripcord. Once, twice, three times, and then she is thrown into the past, the world around her bursting into brilliant electric light.

Even without the candles everywhere, it's almost the same. Merely brighter. And dustier. Everything is coated in a fine layer; no one's bothered to clean in here. Why should they? She walks slowly across the floor, the thoughts running through her mind quicker than she can process them. _It's still emptier—there's a mark where his desk used to be, I didn't notice—I thought that statue was a different color—I should bring that painting to London—_ the last one catches her off guard, and another bucket of freezing emotion splashes over her. _Is your mind already made up then, Ms. Darklaw?_

"Something wrong?" Him and his falcon eyes; she shakes her head again, trying to force a different expression onto her face.

"No, I was just thinking. That's all." Walking quickly, she overtakes him and sits at her desk, brushing dust from the leather first. Staring across the wood makes her feel at home, even with the modern technology. This is _her_ desk, no matter how much time passes. Opening the topmost drawer to her left, a smile _finally_ makes it to her lips. She forgot to retrieve this scrap of paper from the desk on the day she left town, but it's been safe and sound despite her absence.

"Hmm?" Suddenly he's standing over her, and at the sight he laughs. "Did you keep that old thing? Throw it out, for my sake!" She tries to stop him, but he's faster than she. He grabs the paper, barely avoiding ripping it when it catches on the edge of the drawer. He holds it up appraisingly, frowning as if he finds the image distasteful. Her face is drawn on the scrap, a cartoonish mug of hideous proportions. She looks like a badly drawn demon, with horns and sharp teeth bared in a grimace. Once, long ago, _he_ drew that picture.

"No. I'm fond of it." She leans up in the seat, trying to snatch it out of his hands. "Give it here."

"Why?" He tilts his chin at the paper. "Eve, this is terrible. If you want a portrait, I'll draw one for you. I can do better than this, you know."

"I know." She's seen the cartoony people he can draw. Espella has one in her room that's especially cute, even if her braids are sticking out like starched ties from either side of her large head. "But you drew _that_ one first. I'll always treasure it," she teases, though there's a grain of truth in the words.

"But 'tis—mean-spirited!" he finally blurts. "I drew it in a fit of anger."

"Which means it truly came from the heart." He scowls at her when she holds out her hand, palm up. "Now give it back." Again she reaches for it, trying to trick him with speed, but he keeps it just out of grasp. "Zacharias!" She stands, but he holds the paper over her head obstinately. "Give me that right now!"

"I don't like it."

"Well then it's a good thing that it's not yours any longer." She stretches on her tiptoes, but its remains just out of her grasp, fingers tickling the edges. "Zacharias!" she growls again, this time in warning.

" _Why_ do you want to keep it?"

"Because!" The same reason she keeps the pendant and the claw gauntlet. One is a memory of her mother, the other her father, and this doodle is, in some way, a memory of him. Or, at least, of what they were. Of what _she_ had to be. Her hands grab at his arm, trying in vain to pull it down. "Just… ugh!" Frustration has her punching his arm, the muscles rock-hard beneath her knuckles. "Fine, don't give it back." Leaning against the desk, she crosses her arms, looking away pointedly. "I hope it's good company for you, since you'll be sitting by yourself."

" _Hnng_ , but Eve… come now, 'twas merely jest." Placing the paper back in the drawer, he smoothed it carefully before shutting it back in its safe place. "There, see? I wouldn't take it, not if it means that much to you."

"Hmm, too late." She is only giving him a taste of his own medicine with her teasing, but he one-ups her by crowding her at her desk, one hand on the wood at either side of her waist. Alarmed, she presses herself against the wooden furniture until her feet begin to slide against the stone. "What are you—"

"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you?" His voice is calm, smug. He knows what he's doing to her, trapping her like this. "After all, Eve, a man should sit at his lady's side."

"His lady, huh?" Drawing in on herself, she tries to avoid any part of him touching her. It's an opposite to what she wished for on the stairs, but with good reason. She's not sure what she might do if they touch, even innocuously. She's already hyper-aware of every movement his hands make, no matter how slight—it's because she wants them on her, she realizes. It's not a welcome discovery, and yet… not unwelcome, either. His hands she wouldn't mind, but it's more about the need of it, the burning desire that's built and built. It's manageable, but she's afraid that after the first touch, her body will require _him_ as much as it does food or air. "Getting possessive, are we?" she huffs, acting annoyed. It's much better than letting her uncertainty and want show.

"A lady's man should be by her side, then. If you must have it phrased a certain way." He leans in even closer, mouth twisting in that half-grin she loves to hate. It sets her insides to wriggling, from nervousness and—God forbid—arousal. "And we both know you're the one holding the reins right now."

"A-am I?" she sputters, amused as she looks down at the vanishing distance between their bodies. "Any outsider would think that you've got me right where you want me."

"I wouldn't say _right,_ " he mutters, "but we're getting close."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She's not sure whether its appropriate to blush or not, but her body decides for her and does it anyway. "What are you getting at?"

"Use your imagination," he mumbles, matching her shade of red.

"I'd rather hear where yours is taking you… besides the _gutter_." Another modernized term, but he picks up on it easily. Even as aware of his hands as she is, she's still caught off guard when he picks her up carefully, but too quickly for her to complain or try to stop him. Then, while her mind is still picking over the fact that she's now perched on her dusty desk, he somehow worms his way between her thighs. Something catches in her throat—she thinks it might have been a scream, but its strangled to nothing—as she feels the whole of him, from his chest down to places she's only imagined.

"If you have to know," he growls harshly, but somehow the sound settles and sparks in her stomach, "I want you under me… or over me… but this is a fine starting point, don't you think?"

"Zacharias!" Much like her birthday, she isn't sure exactly what to feel. This time, however, flattery isn't one of the emotions to choose from. It occurs to her that they're in the office, and unless she's very, _very_ loud, no one will be able to hear anything happening. The thought is somehow too salacious for what was supposed to be a calm, uneventful outing. "Are you—" _Crazy? Serious? Still teasing?_ Many options run through her mind, but none of them hold the weight she needed.

Still looking down at his hands on the table, she lifts her eyes and finds him staring intently at her. _His eyes_ …. His eyes always had her attention, being as strange as they were. She'd met men and women in London with gray tints to their eyes, but for some reason his always stood out in her mind. Now they're dilated and stormy, conveying the sincerity of what he'd said. He wants her, and if she's willing enough he'd probably have her right here, on the desk. She hears her heart in her ears, pounding away.

"Zacharias?" His eyes dip to her mouth and back; she can feel the suppressed energy rolling off his form, pressing her further into the desk without him having to put forth any effort. Reaching up, she means to push a stray lock of hair back into place, but finds her fingers trailing the curve of his ear with a light touch. Muscles locking, she feels him stiffen as his eyes slide shut with a determined frown.

"Eve, I'm trying _very_ hard to stay under control," he states through clenched teeth, voice raspy and thick. "But if you keep on…." She's still staring at her hand, which is moving towards the nape of his neck with a life all its own. "Eve." It wasn't her name, it was a direct warning. If she didn't want this, she has to stop. _Now_.

"The bell." She can hear it, low peals that seemed to echo down into her bones, even though they are underground. "It's ringing the noon hour." Nodding, he licks his lips and pushes away from the desk, turning his back to her. A bolt of something, like a current, runs through her and leaves her weak, so that when she slides from the desk her legs tremble slightly. Dusting off the seat of her pants, she turns to see a perfect imprint of her rear on the desk, large handprints on either side. She dusts it as well before turning to him. "Are you alright?"

"Mmhmm." He's running his hands through his hair, but when he moved to face her there was his 'work' smile on his face. Forced, but _seemingly_ genuine. "Let's go get a good seat before the crowd comes in." He walks quickly, but when she calls his name once more he turns to look at her over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"Don't feel like you have to." The words leave her mouth in a rush.

"Huh?"

"Controlling yourself. Don't feel like you have to, for my sake." She tugs on her bangs, twisting the curl around and around her finger. "I'm not frightened. Not of you." He continues to stare. "I just didn't expect you to be so frank. That's all." His expression is unfathomable; she still hates that she can't tell what he's thinking, no more than she could when they stood in _their_ office together as Inquisitors.

"Let's go." He turns and motions for her to follow. She does, eyeing the back of his head before she clicks the generator off. It's cheery hums die to silence, along with the light. She moves forward slowly, picking her way back up the stairs and watching his form grow clearer and clearer in the light from the ground level. _What are you thinking?_

The words echo in her mind repeatedly, and she grows irritated when she still can't find a good answer.

* * *

It's Shakespeare.

They're sitting in the gallery, or what remains of it. The pillars are gone, but the seats remain, the Courtroom floor a stage surrounded by seats instead of wings. A theatre in the round; she's pretty sure that's the term for it. The scenery can't be lavish, like it would in a 'proper' box theatre, but there's not much needed for this type of play.

The Comedy of Fools is more a Comedy of Errors, twisted and manipulated so that the layman of Labyrinthia can understand and enjoy. It's in the common vernacular, with smatterings of Labyrinthian slang thrown in to keep the audience in stitches. But she still recognizes the basis as one of Shakespeare's works. Still, it's highly amusing since the knights _do_ look the same when in full armor, and it's easy to get them mixed up. And Cinderellia makes a good Wife; she thinks that the girl might be channeling a bit of her mother during the angry scenes.

Despite knowing the story already, she still finds herself laughing along with the crowd, who eat it up as though they've never heard of Shakespeare. Which, depending on how young they were and whether or not they pay attention to their past memories, may very well be the case. The content is kept at a safe eyebrow-raising tongue in cheek, with most jokes thinly veiled enough that any children in the crowd would appreciate the slapstick more than the witty humor.

"'Tis truly a room of fools," Barnham exclaims during the intermission. Laughing for a solid hour seems to have taken his mind off of what happened in the office. Or, at least, that's what she thinks until she catches his eye. The look is still there, only subdued for the moment. Neither of them says a word about it, only from her management of the conversation. She keeps him talking about the play, the repartee light and enjoyable until the music starts up to signal the second half. For a moment, everything seems to be going swell.

Then his arm is around her shoulders.

At first, she doesn't register what it is. She wonders if the man behind her has put his feet on her seat. Half turning to find out the cause of the jostling, she finds his hand instead of a boot. _Oh._ He's lounging in the chair, legs crossed to keep from spilling into her space; he hasn't looked at her. But she knows he's watching, with his other senses if not with his eyes. _Well, there's no harm in it._ It doesn't bother her as much as she thought it might, and everyone's too involved with the play to notice a man with his arm around a woman's shoulders. Even if that man and woman are two of the most well-known people in town.

Even while chuckling at the knight and his 'page' (really a cloaked figure in a repurposed Shade cloak), she's only half-paying attention to the scene. Her brain is awhirl with thoughts that are just going to get her in trouble, should she act on them. Right now, it's telling her to tease him a bit, since he wouldn't be able to retaliate without drawing attention.

It's wrong, and she shouldn't do it. That's mean-spiritedness if anything is. But _wrong_ doesn't stop her from leaning into his side, as much as she can with the thin arm of the chair in the way. If he notices the movement—and she's sure he does—he makes no comment. After a long moment of stasis, where they both seem to be simultaneously watching the play and each other, his arm curls closer around her shoulder. She feels the edge of his finger brushing at her hair, feeling the texture without moving his entire hand.

It's her move. Without meaning to, she seems to have started some sort of game between them. She shifts in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. What can she do? Thinking it over, she finds herself at a stalemate before she's even started. Perhaps a little scare would work? Reaching with her left hand, she touches his and makes as if to knock it away. Nothing about him changes, but she can somehow _feel_ the tensing, his attention solely on her and whether or not she's going to make him keep his hands to himself. She lets the tension hang, ride, and then merely adjusts him to a more comfortable spot on her shoulder.

The play continues on. The knight can't get into his house, he's dripping from wine poured on him by his wife, and his misfortunes grow. Her misfortunes grow too—though perhaps _misfortune_ is a bad word to use. He moves away long enough to take some of her hair, caught between them, and gently shift it back into place; he takes care, of course, to brush his hand along the exposed skin where her neck meets her shoulder. A light, perhaps even accidental touch that doesn't warrant the sharp, thankfully muffled inhale she makes. If she didn't know him well enough, she might have mistaken it for just that. But even as the heat prickles along the collar of her blouse, she can see the corner of his mouth twitch in a triumphant little smirk. He thinks he's trumped her.

How easily he forgets what it's _really_ like to challenge her.

 _It's time to win._ It's hard to say exactly what she'd win, but its down to the two of them, just like it used to be. Of course, they never played _this_ sort of game as coworkers. That was always more of a vie for power, who was really the superior and who the subordinate. It was a war, fought in battles but never truly won. If the witch trials hadn't ended, they might have still been playing it at this very moment. And, while this little game was also a subdued power struggle, it seemed more dangerous. If he won, she couldn't say that she wouldn't be miffed, but if she won—somehow, she didn't see it stopping when the play was over. He'd said, even back on the pier, that he was merely waiting for a good time to grab her, and if she hadn't stopped him earlier….

 _Look, when I start to kiss you, I'm not going to want to stop… I've been trying to hold myself back, but 'tis nearly impossible._

The problem lay in the fact that she wouldn't be the one stopping him, either. And if the words Rouge had said weren't fresh in her mind, she might have told him to forget all about the play. _He was in here every night drinking himself silly._ It's enough to sober her, but… she wasn't afraid of Rouge. The woman had offered her advice, and she'd taken it into consideration. _I'll have to talk to him, but it's not as if he doesn't know the same as I do. That I'm going to have to decide something that may… not be the easiest for us._

Thinking back to the pier, she chokes back a sigh at how much easier it was to just be happy that she was back. That she could touch him again, if she wanted to. She'd even…. Licking her lips, she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He's waiting for her next move, but only halfheartedly. _He's still thinking that he's won_. Reaching out boldly, she puts her hand on his thigh, the same way she had when they were in the boat. The reaction was instantaneous; his hand tightens on her shoulder, leg flexes beneath her, breath catching in his chest. She pretends not to notice, pretends to be enthralled in the action taking place onstage, as everyone rushes around making a big to-do about the two brothers and their two servants.

 _And now, to seal the victory._ Carefully, purposefully absentminded, she traces the inseam of his pants, hand running up his thigh. He couldn't' have been more tensed if he had been down there behind the Inquisitor's bench, as in the days of old. She pauses when she reaches the point of no return, then slowly retraces her line back down towards his knee. Twice more she does it before he visibly fidgets. She moves her shoulders in response, pretending to be annoyed that he won't stay still so she can lean against him.

Her fingers start their fourth foray up his thigh when suddenly his arm is not around her shoulders anymore, his hand holding hers tightly. He stands, dragging her up with him.

"Come on." She can do little more than let out a harried string of excuses as they push down the line, through the Courtroom side arch and into the antechamber. For a split second, she thinks he's taking her back to the office, but he yanks her behind him through the front doors and into the afternoon sun. It's warm, pleasant; she didn't realize how cool the Courthouse really was until the sun hits her face.

"Z-Zacharias—would you—wait!" She nearly falls on her face but he's not stopping, taking her down the path towards the fork. Her mind trips and tumbles, trying to decide where they're going. She can't see his face to discern his expression. The bakery? Home? No, when they reach the signpost he veers right, pushing through the dense brush into the forest. It takes her a moment to recognize the old Shade path; it's overgrown from disuse, but the foot-worn trail is still barely visible.

"Where are we going?" He doesn't answer, and she's forced to put all her concentration on not falling. "These shoes aren't made for walking in the forest; would you _slow down_?!" She yanks fruitlessly, trying to either free her hand from his iron grip or, at the very least, make him pause so that she might catch her breath. The weeds tickle her feet, thorns and limbs snatching at her clothing, vines smacking her face.

She lets out a quick prayer of thanks when they emerge, relatively unscathed, at the ruins. Her eyes follow the mossy paths up the stone structures, up to where nature is still trying to reclaim the land with thick tree roots. She yanks again on her arm, wiggling her foot to loosen a pebble out of her sandal.

"Zachari—" His name dies on her tongue when he turns, his expression caught between fierce and resolved. "I… might have wanted to finish the play," she manages to say, somehow still standing with her shoulders squared, despite the hard glint in his eyes.

"You weren't watching it," he accuses quietly, the soft tone at odds with the set lines of his face. She finds herself backing away, more to keep some space between them than out of any trepidation. "I _told_ you what would happen if you kept on."

"What was I doing?" She feigns innocence, if only to keep the conversation going. "I don't recall doing anything other than watching the play."

"You don't think you've teased me enough already?" Her back is against the wall of the ruins now, the earthy smell of tree root lingering above her and the slickness of the wet moss tickling at her neck. "This, the boat—ah, don't think I've forgotten that, Eve. I've thought about nothing else, really."

"Well, I…"

"Well, I" is not an answer." He's crowding around her with his usual lack of personal boundaries; now his scent is mingled with the smell of the jungle-esque forest around them, of the rotting ruins, his own scent, the faintest hint of that woodsy aroma from his cologne, the warm fragrance that comes from the earth itself in spring. "I deserve a day, at least… that's all I ask for."

"A-a day?" She doesn't understand.

"A day… this week, any day you please. I'll be at your house at dawn, all the way until dusk. Even after, if we're not done."

"Done doing what, may I ask?" She pushes him away, her hands on his shoulders.

"Do you still have the letters?" They're poking her pocket, a constant reminder that he never posted any of his true feelings for her.

"Of course."

"Read them. I want to do everything in those letters. Say you'll give me a day of your time here."

"I don't even know what I'm agreeing to," she protests. "You told me not to read them until this evening!"

"I can show you… the first one." His eyes shift to her pocket, as if he can see them through her pants. "Say yes, and I'll do it."

"But I don't know wh—"

"Say yes, Eve."

"Not without you telling me what I'm agreeing to, I won't."

"Say it… please." His fingers find her chin, lifting her head even more before cupping her jaw. She's frozen again, but this time it's not with cold. She's a deer in the garden, a rabbit spying the shadow of a hawk. Or a falcon. His eyes watch her carefully, seeing every nuance of her lingering doubt. "Do you realize you're driving me mad?" he whispers, careful not to startle her into running. She does realize it, though she's never thought of it like that before.

"Y-yes." His lips are on hers before she can take in a breath, hand holding her still while his arm winds around her waist and pulls her off the rock. Her own hands are still on his shoulders; they can reach up and knock him into the rock, push him away, force his hand off her face. They do none of those things. Instead, they stay right where they're at until he lets her breathe.

"That wasn't me agreeing, git." Her chest is heaving, lips tingling and body heated to rival the temperature of the sun. He swallows, licks his lips to catch the last bit of her.

"You want me to stop?" he asks breathlessly.

"Hell no."

 _And thus was the morning and evening of the second day._

* * *

 **Afterword** : (smugpepe. png)


End file.
